


The Pinnacle

by phyripo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 08:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10917861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyripo/pseuds/phyripo
Summary: Natalya did not ask for this job as PA to Olympe Castil, the world's haughtiest editor in chief, but like hell is she going to let her wayward magic ruin another thing for her. Even if her computer is afraid of her, her neighbor won't stop laughing, and suspicious accidents are abound at the publishing house; she will not give up.





	1. can i have time

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo here it is! My contribution (apart from orgANIZING THE WHOLE DAMN THING) to the Hetalia Big Bang 2017! Because I have been _dying_ to write more MonaBela and magic is always a good topic if you ask me.
> 
> My partners were the wonderful [glittergraphy](http://glittergraphy.tumblr.com) and [wandschrankheld](http://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com) (and I will surely link to their art later!)
> 
> The story is named after (drum roll) the song of the same name by Kansas. It's from the album Masque, which is significant for a reason that makes sense when you read the story heh :D
> 
> FEATURING  
> Belarus - Natalya Arlovskaya  
> Monaco - Olympe Castil  
> Bulgaria - Stefan Borisov  
> Poland - Feliks Łukasiewicz  
> Seychelles - Angélique Verlaque  
> Romania - Dragos Rotaru  
> and other characters who I will list at the end of the chapter in which they appear!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful art in this chapter is by [wandschrankheld](http://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com) and can be found [here](http://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com/post/161144545684)! Be sure to to go check it out :O

Natalya had no illusions about her charm, or her immediate likeability. She didn’t care to bother with unnecessary niceties, thinking them a waste of her time. People worth her time would stay.

This was not appreciated when you were a bartender, and though the reason cited in the letter was ‘reforms’, Natalya was certain that’s why she had been fired from the job. _Let go_. Right. Luckily, her neighbor had been able to point her in the direction of a vacancy elsewhere, an opportunity she had greedily jumped on even before knowing what the job entailed.

Now, trying not to twist her ankle in her high heels on the cobblestone street, she was starting to think she could have come better prepared.

A large building loomed at the end of the street, an old warehouse that dominated the block. Like the shops in the old city center, it had been built with red bricks, and Natalya counted five floors with high windows. The top floor had glass instead of walls, slightly rose-tinted with the weak morning sunlight falling through it. One part was slightly higher than the rest, giving it the appearance of a small tower. Natalya thought she could make out shapes moving up there.

The entire building, it seemed, belonged to her potential new employer. Arc Publishing, read the sleek black letters mounted on the third floor.

Stefan, her neighbor, knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who worked here, and although Natalya had no experience with anything remotely related to publishing, they agreed to invite her for an interview. She hoped that, whoever the employee was, they wouldn’t expect  her to pay them back – she hated being indebted to people.

There were little golden rainbows on the sliding doors, and another big one behind the reception desk. Natalya’s heels clicked pleasantly on the wooden floor of the lobby, which was decorated in a surprisingly homey way, with high walls in soft, understated colors and enormous wingback chairs next to the door. A vase of roses sat on the reception desk.

Natalya walked up to the desk and peered down at a woman with bright red lipstick, who was busy typing. When she finished with a flourish, she looked up at Natalya. Her eyes narrowed a little, but she put on a smile and greeted her.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes. I have an interview at ten with Mr—” she took a breath— “Łukasiewicz.”

“Ah, Feliks,” the woman said. Her lip gave the tiniest twitch when she looked away from Natalya, who didn’t doubt she was being judged based on her dark eye shadow on the black dress she was wearing, the trailing sleeves of which nearly covered her equally black nails.

“And your name is?”

“Arlovskaya,” she replied.

“Hm… Yes, I see you here.” The woman pressed her lips together as if disappointed. “Take the elevator to the third floor, Feliks will wait for you there.”

Natalya bit down on the comment she wanted to make and shortly thanked the woman instead, pressing her tingling fingertips into her palms. She glared at the vase of roses, which had been edging away from her as if afraid, and it stopped moving. The last thing she wanted is for anything to go awry because of this – this _thing_ that happened around her. _Magic_ , she thought sometimes, when her bag had packed itself, or Stefan’s cat had not, in fact, pooped on her couch, or computers short-circuited when she touched them. Truth was, she had no idea what to make of it, and tried to ignore it as much as she could.

She walked to the elevator. It was an old-fashioned one, with a golden scissor gate, and Natalya couldn’t help but wonder if it was actually old, or merely supposed to match the interior design. Arc Publishing was best known for its fashion and lifestyle magazines, after all. It would make sense for them to want everything to match. This – _Feliks_ – she was meeting worked for the fashion magazine, but Stefan had been unclear about his actual position.

Her neighbor might have been the only person Natalya would consider a friend, but many things about him did tend to be unclear.

The elevator actually let out a small _ding_ when it arrived, but before Natalya could get on, she was practically shoved out of the way by a small woman with glasses, followed immediately by a lanky blond man and a girl with a clipboard, who shot an apologetic look at Natalya and held the elevator door. Natalya turned around, ready to at the very least make a rude gesture at the woman, but she was already snapping at the man.

“I do not _care_ what you think of it, Francis,” she said haughtily. “Find me someone.”

“Listen—” the man started, holding out a hand. The girl with the clipboard was nervously bouncing on her heels now, dark curls dancing up and down with every hop.

“No, I will _not_.” She seemed to register Natalya for the first time, and her eyes narrowed behind rectangular glasses the same shade of burgundy as her pencil skirt. “And what are _you_ doing here?” Her gaze lingered on the high-cut lace collar of Natalya’s dress in obvious distaste.

“No,” she continued when Natalya opened her mouth to make a snarky remark, “don’t tell me. I can already tell I do not care.”

Clipboard Girl made a small noise of distress, and the man sighed wearily. Natalya just stared down at the woman.

“I see. I suppose it might a lot for you to handle, yes, caring about people.”

“I— How dare you? Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, yes.”

The man and Clipboard Girl sucked in a surprised breath. The clipboard was making a valiant effort to wrench itself out of the hands holding it.

“I do know. A woman with an ego twice her size,” Natalya said.

Now, she just stared, blue eyes bright with anger, while Clipboard Girl made another soft noise and pushed her recalcitrant clipboard against her chest. The woman squared her jaw, raised her eyebrows, and turned to walk to the doors.

She looked over her shoulder just once, to point at the blond man and say, “As soon as you can.”

The receptionist began typing frantically, like she hadn’t been greedily listening to the whole exchange.

“Well,” Natalya said, stepping into the elevator past Clipboard Girl, “interesting as this was, I have an interview to get to. Goodbye.”

The last thing she saw before the ridiculous gate closed, was the blond man’s contemplative expression.

* * *

Feliks Łukasiewicz was dedicated, snappy, and, when one included Natalya’s heels in her height, a good fifteen centimeters shorter than her. The sheer force of his personality made up for it, though. He was the fashion magazine’s storage minder and seamstress, and had seemed oddly delighted at Natalya’s choice of dress. Never before, at least that she knew of, had her preference for dark colors helped her out, but Feliks seemed to think it was more important to stay true to oneself than to be fashionable. Which, Natalya thought, was an odd stance for someone who worked for a fashion magazine, but she didn’t voice that.

All in all, the job interview was going quite well. Feliks needed an assistant. Natalya wouldn’t have to interact with many people, and with a little brushing up, her seamstress skills would be perfectly up to par. All appliances in the room behaved themselves, and the tingling in Natalya’s fingertips settled down.

So she was confused when the door of the storage – that Feliks affectionately called the Cupboard – opened after a short knock and Clipboard Girl, now without her clipboard but with her phone in hand, poked her head in, telling Feliks she would like to ‘borrow the interviewee’.

“Why?” Feliks asked, shaking his head in confusion, thin blond hair fanning around his pale face.

“Francis wants to speak to her.”

Feliks scrunched his nose but let Natalya go. She followed Clipboard Girl, who introduced herself as Angélique, to the elevator, which they rode to the top floor.

There were no scissor gates here, and it immediately became clear why. The design of this large, light space was nothing like the rustic downstairs. The office had a concrete floor, people worked at robust wooden desks lit by industrial factory lamps – but Angélique was quick in guiding Natalya to a glass-paneled office, a little higher than the rest of the space, so probably situated in the little ‘tower’, where the blond man from downstairs was sitting behind a desk strewn with colorful photos and sketches. There wasn’t much time to look around.

He smiled when he saw them, but Natalya couldn’t help the unpleasant turn her stomach made. Perhaps she had insulted him, an obviously high-ranking person, by insulting that woman earlier, and he wanted to assure she didn’t get the job. It had been looking so good.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly, when Angélique had let Natalya into his office. “Thank you, Angélique.” He extracted some papers from underneath something that looked like a statuette of a camel being used as a paperweight, then turned to Natalya when Angélique shut the door.

“You’re Natalya… Arlovskaya, yes?”

“I am.”

“My name is Francis Bonnefoy.” He paused, then continued when Natalya didn’t react, “I’m the director of Arc Publishing.”

Oh _wow_. She’d managed to insult someone in front of the fucking _director_. Stefan was going to love this. He always did say she was too blunt for her own good.

“And you were being interviewed for a job as assistant to Feliks Łukasiewicz, yes?” Bonnefoy asked.

“Yes.”

Bonnefoy looked at her for a while, expression unreadable. “Yes. I must ask – how attached are you to that position? Would you accept an offer for another position in this agency?”

“What do you mean?”

“See, Ms Arlovskaya, we’ve got an unexpected and urgent vacancy – I say unexpected. Whatever the case… It needs to be filled, and you have the perfect qualifications.”

What the fuck kind of job required half a history degree and experience as a bartender and a sex line operator, Natalya thought, miffed, before she remembered she didn’t put the disastrous sex line stint on her résumé. Still.

“You would be employed directly by me,” Bonnefoy was explaining, “and if it doesn’t work out, we can see about getting you replaced to the Cupboard after all. What do you think?”

“Does it pay well?” she asked bluntly. A corner of the director’s mouth quirked up, and he leaned forward, bringing with him a subtle spicy smell.

“It does, Ms Arlovskaya. Better than being Mr Łukasiewicz’s assistant.”

She bit her cheek, pretending to think, but it was really not a hard question.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

His blue eyes lit up. “Wonderful. Angélique can get you all the papers. You start tomorrow at nine. Wear something…” He smiled. “Wear something exactly like that. I love it.”

An hour later, Natalya was outside in the chilly spring air, slightly confused but contented. She put one earbud in and let the guitars chase her home. Her scooter started without a hitch.

* * *

The next day dawned with the same watery sunlight that had been trying to poke its way through the clouds for the entire month now.

Natalya looked blearily at the street from her small bedroom window, dismayed to find a delivery truck parked right out front of the shop downstairs. That meant the owner was up and about already, and she wasn’t particularly keen on running into him. There was nothing inherently wrong with the man, but he did tend to be grumpy often.

Nevertheless, she picked out the blackest dress she owned – a knee-length thing with a blouse collar – and rummaged through her pantry fruitlessly. She sighed and flicked the doors shut with a thoughtless twist of her fingers, then smiled faintly. She hadn’t really expected that to work.

Her shoes hopped in line before her feet when she reached the front door of her apartment, but she kicked them aside in irritation.

“You could at least make an effort to fucking match,” she mumbled, and the two right shoes slunk off.

In her socks, she crossed the cold landing to her neighbor’s door. When it opened to her knocking, it was first to a fluffy white cat sprinting into the hall, then the exasperated, expected, call from inside.

“Boris, for fuck’s sake!”

Natalya smirked at Stefan when he came into view at last, looking rather rumpled, dark hair sticking up haphazardly and bathrobe open over his pajamas.

“Nat? ‘S the matter?”

“Breakfast, is the matter. And some coffee, that’d be nice.”

Stefan scratched his stubbly chin. “Breakfast’s the matter, I see. Come in, I’m gonna…” He gestured vaguely at the hall, where Boris was doing a poor job of hiding in the shadows. “I don’t want him to get downstairs.”

“I don’t think it would make a difference in how much Barranco dislikes you,” Natalya called after him, while he jumped after his cat, who practically flew away, and she entered his apartment, which was a perfect mirror of her own in layout.

“ _Dislike_ ,” she heard Stefan grumble. “That’ll be the day.”

When he finally came back inside, holding a struggling Boris in his arms, Natalya had already finished her breakfast. He sighed and put the cat down.

“Any reason you’re up so early you can’t just run to the store and buy yourself a sandwich? Or some yoghurt, because I see you’ve just eaten all of mine. Thanks for that.”

Natalya flashed him a lazy smirk. “I wouldn’t want to be late for work at nine.”

“For— Oh!” Green eyes lit up. “You got the job!”

“I got _a_ job,” she amended. “Not sure what, to be honest, but I’ll see. I should be off.”

“Sure,” Stefan said distractedly, scratching his chin again, looking rather forlornly at the empty yoghurt carton. And then, as Natalya was walking through his narrow hall, “There’s no need to thank me or anything…”

She paused, hand on the door, then sighed.

“Thanks, Borisov.” She didn’t hear the response, pulling the door shut behind herself.

* * *

In the lobby of Arc Publishing, there was a bustle of astonishingly beautiful people, and it occurred to Natalya that she had no fucking clue where to go. She didn’t think she had been provided with that particular piece of information. Just as she was about to go and bother the judgmental receptionist, Clipboard Girl – Angélique – materialized at her side, flanked by a tall, handsome man. Her curls were piled on top of her head today, held there by a red hairband. She was wearing a matching dress with short puff sleeves.

“Ms Arlovskaya, good to see you!” she trilled. The man smiled down at her adoringly, and Natalya raised an eyebrow. A workplace romance, how quaint.

“I’ll take you up, okay?” Angélique was asking, and Natalya found herself nodding, then watching as Angélique pressed one hand against the man’s chest and he clasped her wrist briefly. Natalya pressed her lips together, but then she was being herded into the crowded elevator and taken to the top floor once again.

This time, there was a little more time to look around. The early morning sun was hazy through the rose-tinted windows, bathing all the robust edges and sharp steel corners of the office in pinkish light. The floor was bustling already, and Natalya could see Francis Bonnefoy sitting in his office, writing busily, blond hair curtaining him off from the rest of the floor. The hum of productivity made her fingertips tingle in a nearly pleasant way, but she told the power brimming in her body to settle. No need to make something explode on the first day on a new job. Been there, done that, never again if she had a say in it.

“Okay,” Angélique said, stopping just before Bonnefoy’s little office. “Here we are. This will be your desk. Uhm…” She glanced to the side, where another glass-paneled office gleamed behind the desk, this one with the blinds still drawn.

Drawing her fingers across the bleached wood of _her_ desk, Natalya squinted at the door of the office, which was labeled in thin gold letters.

_O.M. Castil_  
Editor in chief  
MASQUE

Masque was the fashion magazine, that much Natalya did know. The other magazine Arc published, Avant, was an arts and culture one, that she recalled having bought Stefan for Christmas last year. He liked to look at the food pages. If Natalya was lucky, he’d _make_ something from the food pages and let her try it.

“Here she comes,” Angélique mumbled, biting her lower lip nervously. Bonnefoy had looked up from his work and steepled his long fingers underneath his chin.

“Who—” But Natalya looked over her shoulder, and—

Despite her small height, she was impossible to miss. The woman from the elevator, click-clacking across the concrete floor on impossibly high heels, nodding tightly at the other employees as she came straight towards the office. _Her_ employees, fucking hell. She was the _editor in chief_. This was _her office_. Of fucking course. Why hadn’t she read the _contract_?

Natalya flicked an apprehensive glance at Angélique, who was bouncing on her heels again, smoothing her dress down nervously.

“Angélique,” the small woman greeted. Her eyes, this time framed by round, wire-rimmed glasses, flicked to Natalya, but she didn’t acknowledge her presence. Natalya pressed her fingers into her palms, nails biting into the skin.

“Good morning,” Angélique returned the greeting. Then, “Olympe, hold on!”

She stopped, hand on her office door, and looked at Angélique. Natalya had the sinking feeling she knew what was coming, and was not looking forward to it.

“Yes?”

“Francis has found someone for you.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. Send th—”

“This is Ms Natalya Arlovskaya,” Angélique interrupted breathily, like she wanted to get it over with. “She will be your new PA.”

Silence.

“ _What_ ,” Castil said sharply. “This— _This_? Is Francis insane? Do not answer that. I will not have that woman in my employ, absolutely not.”

“And good thing – I don’t want to work for _her_ ,” Natalya spat.

“Well, that is settled, then,” Castil said decisively. “Angélique, I will need a new—”

“Olympe,” interrupted the smooth voice of Francis Bonnefoy. “She’s employed by me.”

Castil opened her mouth, then closed it. Frowned at the director.

“I do not follow.”

He leaned against the doorpost of his office. “You cannot fire her, Olympe. If she truly wishes to leave, that’s up to her, but you can’t send her away at the slightest grievance like you did your past six assistants.”

“I—” Sharp blue eyes flicked from Bonnefoy to Natalya, who was trying to take steady breaths and dissuade the computer monitor on the desk of the notion that now would be an excellent time to leap to the ground in terror.

“You were— Why did you hire her?” Castil demanded. “Does she have the right qualifications?”

“I employed her because she has already proven she can stand up to you. And she does meet the qualifications, as a matter of fact. I do not want you to burn through any more assistants, Olympe. It isn’t good for any of the involved.”

While Castil spluttered, Natalya felt oddly touched by the director’s words. This was probably the first time her bluntness had ever worked in her favor. She’d have to tell Stefan.

“Francis— Look at her!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Natalya put in.

“I know!” Castil snapped. “Francis, you heard her earlier. She doesn’t want this job.”

“Actually,” Natalya said, smirking when Castil and Bonnefoy turned to her expectantly, “I have changed my mind.”

Because she was, if nothing else, a woman fueled by spite, and it pleased her to see Castil splutter indignantly.

“I would _love_ to work for you.”

After a quiet second, Castil took a deep breath and flashed a sharp smile back.

“I’m sure you will, Ms Arlovskaya. Welcome to Masque.”

* * *

In the whirlwind of a first week that followed, Natalya quickly realized that Castil had taken her acceptance of the job for the challenge that it was. The most menial tasks were delegated to her – apparently, her new boss was unable to do anything without assistance. She was sent to get sandwiches and frumpy drinks, to deliver memos personally to Francis, whose office was less than ten steps away, and Castil refused to answer her own phone, leaving Natalya sometimes scrambling across the room to get it – it didn’t help that the phone was afraid of her, and shied away from her touch if she wasn’t fast enough.

Angélique, who, as it turned out, was Bonnefoy’s PA, flashed smiles Natalya supposed were meant to be encouraging throughout the week. They could see each other from behind their respective desks. It just made Natalya feel unnerved.

When he wasn’t busy laughing at her, Stefan graciously made her dinner and let her eat his yoghurt for breakfast. She barely had time to do any grocery shopping, let alone cook, and was too worn-out for it anyway.

But she _refused_ to quit. She knew that was what Castil wanted – apart from spiced lattés and exactly three slices of cucumber on her baguette – and Natalya didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. It was petty, but there was nothing wrong with that in her eyes.

The attitude the woman had towards Natalya changed over the course of the week; from overly polite, in a frustratingly condescending way, to downright hostile, when it apparently became bothersome to keep it up. Natalya preferred the hostility, she thought. At least that way, she knew where she stood.

When, finally, she was done for an entire two days, she wanted nothing more than to go home, finagle some good vodka out of Mr Barranco from the liquor store downstairs, and collapse on the couch for a few hours, or perhaps longer. Castil had left before her, and only Bonnefoy and Angélique were still working now, apart from Natalya herself. It was almost completely dark out already, and the rest of the floor was hard to see. Natalya was stuck organizing the submitted reader columns for this month’s edition of Masque, knowing full well that Castil didn’t give a fuck about how she organized them and would pick her own favorite anyway, as she had done with everything so far.

One day, Natalya thought, she would write a column of her own. Castil wouldn’t know what hit her.

“Hey, uhm, Natalya?”

“Hm?” Natalya looked up at Angélique, who was smiling a little bashfully, backlit by the light from Bonnefoy’s little tower office. She never called Natalya by her first name when they were both working, but always had a chipper ‘good morning, Natalya’ or a ‘goodnight, Natalya’ if they met outside. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong! I just wanted to ask – some people are going out tonight. Just a couple hours, nothing wild. Anyway, do you want to tag along? I could introduce you to some people who work around here… Feliks is probably coming.”

Longingly, Natalya thought of her couch, and Boris, who would undoubtedly sneak his way into her apartment. She bit her cheek.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to, we won’t hold it against you.”

Natalya narrowed her eyes at Angélique.

“I realize that sounds like we will, but honestly,” she assured, and Natalya had to bite down on a smile. Some people just made a big deal out of everything, didn’t they?

“Fine, I’ll come with you. But not for long.”

“Ah, great! Here, I’ll give you the address…”

* * *

Which was why Natalya found herself in a tiny, dark and warm café at nine in the evening, trying to find Angélique’s distinctive curls in the teeming crowd, all the while feeling like she was being laughed at somewhere. There was no fucking way the trendy people from Arc would ever frequent a place like this, right? Trying to imagine Angélique and her colorful dresses among the middle-aged women wearing tight tank tops and low-slung jeans and the suspiciously wizard-like old guys at the back just seemed wrong. _Unnatural_.

Natalya did not appreciate being made fun of, and was halfway turned to the door to leave, when someone slammed into her from behind at top speed, screeching her name enthusiastically.

“What the _fuck_?” she burst, as a table jumped forward to break her almost-fall. _Yes_ , because that would help so much, breaking her neck on a table instead of the dirty floor.

“Sorry. I thought you were leaving.” It was Feliks Łukasiewicz, wearing a rather distracting shimmery shirt and – was that glitter mascara?

“What? I was.”

“Aw, really? Lique said she invited you, but we weren’t sure you’d actually, like, show. Do you still wanna leave? Don’t let me stop you.”

Natalya blinked down at him. “No?”

“Okay, awesome, come on, everyone’s waiting!”

‘Everyone’ sounded like a lot of people, Natalya thought warily while she followed the swish of Feliks’s shirt through the crowd. He led her to a dimly-lit booth tucked away at the back of the café, which held three people who were talking animatedly. Angélique, sitting next to the tall man Natalya had seen on her first day at Arc Publishing, but never again after that, smiled when she saw Natalya, gesturing her and Feliks over. The other person in the booth was a man with medium-length dark hair and a pale face in the gloom.

“I’m so glad you could come!” Angélique tittered, with dark-painted lips curved into a wide smile. She really was quite pretty, Natalya thought, if one was into the whole happy-happy peace vibe. Well, that man seemed to have it covered.

The man in question was being tugged out of the booth by Angélique so they could be introduced.

“Natalya, this is David Clarke, he works down at Avant.”

They shook hands politely, David giving a grin, all straight white teeth.

“Aaand…” Angélique hauled the last man to his feet, and he swayed, smiling at Natalya. He was taller than he looked sitting down, unfolding into a lanky shape in a green sweater that seemed very plain next to Feliks’s getup and Angélique pleated floral dress.

“This is Tolys Laurinaitis, from the main publishing house. Tolys, Natalya – Olympe’s new PA.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Tolys, shaking Natalya’s hand.

“Likewise,” she – well, she didn’t _lie_ , but she did wonder what the hell had possessed her to say yes to Angélique’s invitation. It was probably another way to piss Castil off by being a good employee, she reckoned. And perhaps the hope that someone else would pay her drinks for her. She was starting to feel a little guilty about living off Stefan, even if he didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t sure how she could pay him back this time. There were only so many times he needed someone to be his beard, after all.

But that would all work out, she was sure. Right now, she was fine with Tolys and David traipsing over to the bar to buy everyone a drink of their choice. Feliks and Natalya squeezed into the round booth next to Angélique.

“You know,” Feliks told Natalya, “I’ve never had an assistant leave for brighter places before my interview was even done.”

Natalya huffed.

“Oh, have you found someone else, though?” Angélique asked, concerned. There she went again with the caring about everything.

“Yeah. Some college kid, he’s totally over the moon.” He shook some thin blond hair out of his eyes with a brusque motion. “How’s Castil treating you?” he asked Natalya, leaning over conspiratorially.

She twisted her mouth into a grimace.

“If it helps,” Angélique offered, “you’ve held out longer than the last three assistants.”

“She’s held out longer than the last three assistants _combined_ ,” Feliks said morosely. “I can’t believe the commotion those girls make when they’re forced to leave.”

“And Olympe is even ruder to you than she was to them…”

“What’s her deal?” Natalya asked. Maybe the evening would prove useful. An insight into Castil’s mind could be just what she needed. Better yet – a bit of blackmail might come in handy in the future.

“I think she’s lonely,” Angélique mused, peering over at the bar.

Feliks scoffed. “Lonely? I think she’s a bitch.”

Angélique threw him a surprisingly fierce glare, and he held up his hands as if in surrender.

“She hasn’t always been like this, you know,” she said. “You haven’t worked for her as long as I’ve been around, but she used to be very nice.”

“Right,” Feliks said doubtfully. Natalya felt inclined to agree with him. She stared at the battered wood of the tabletop and tried to imagine a nice Olympe Castil. One whose smiles reached her eyes and who didn’t call her ‘Arlovskaya’ like it was something dirty. It was unnatural.

She stopped staring at the table when she could see the wood charring slightly where her gaze had been.

“She was always with Francis a lot, but now that he’s director and in a relationship… I don’t know, it seems to have affected her.”

Castil and Bonnefoy… “Were they together?” Natalya asked.

Angélique’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no! They’re half-siblings!”

Feliks leaned forward to almost-whisper over the music and the murmur of voices, “Francis is _four months_ older than Olympe.” Then, louder again, “Rich people, I swear…”

“Right you are!” said David, who returned with Tolys trailing behind and his arms full of bottles and glasses. He took his earlier seat next to Angélique. Tolys looked lost for a moment, then sat down next to Natalya, which left her boxed in between him and Feliks.

She shifted uncomfortably and made to grab a beer, which jumped into her hand eagerly, soaking the sleeve of her dress. No one noticed, a quick glance around confirmed. They were all busy sipping their own drinks. Natalya considered trying to dry her sleeve, but decided it would be more likely to catch on fire than anything else, and refrained. She wasn’t very good at making the – magic – do what she wanted it to on her best days, and after such a long week, there was no telling what it would decide for her.

“Which rich people are we talking about?” asked David.

“Our bosses.” Angélique tried to steal his beer to take a sip, but he stopped her with a grin, snatching his bottle and taking a gulp. Natalya huffed, and Feliks rolled his eyes dramatically.

“My boss, too?” He must mean the editor in chief of Avant, Natalya supposed.

“No, not really,” said Angélique, giggling and swatting him away.

“Well, he _is_ the one Francis is dating,” Feliks put in.

“He’s a good guy,” David said. “The things I’ve heard about Olympe Castil, though…” He whistled between his teeth. “Rich people, indeed. It’s a weird family, that.”

“Oh, hush.” Angélique lightly slapped his biceps. “You know I’m related to them, right?”

“What? No, you’re not!”

Feliks was leaning forward eagerly while Tolys chuckled, and Natalya had to admit she was intrigued. Castil and Bonnefoy, she could have guessed. They both had the whole blond-haired, blue-eyed thing going on, and – now that she thought about it – they definitely had the same sharp nose and general air of _posh_ hanging around them. Angélique was the last person she would have suspected to be related to them. Even apart from her warm brown skin and massively curly dark hair, she just radiated an entirely different vibe. An approachable one. Natalya would sooner have pointed to herself.

“Really! A few generations back, we share a great-great-grandfather or something. I think he ran off with a servant.” She grimaced. “I didn’t know until last year, either. My dad did some research. I’m sure there’s tons of relatives around town, though. The Bonnefoy name is very old, and in a family like that, you can count on scandals in every generation.”

“ _Rich people_ ,” Feliks said again. He had downed his vodka in about two gulps. Natalya was impressed despite herself. Mr Barranco would hate him.

“And I really think Olympe is just lonely,” Angélique added, sticking her chin out defiantly.

David mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “That’s a shit excuse.”

“It’s—” Angélique paused. “Okay, it kind of is.”

David raised his impressive eyebrows triumphantly.

“Still.”

Conversation ambled on around the table, though Natalya didn’t add much. Tolys, still pressed against her side, didn’t talk much either. He only appeared to be familiar with Feliks, adding something to his outrageous stories from time to time, otherwise speaking just when he was asked a question.

Feliks and Angélique were quickly affirming their place as office gossips in Natalya’s mind. Together, they seemed to know everything about everyone, in all of the publishing house despite the fact that they both worked for Masque. It only interested Natalya when it was about Castil or Bonnefoy. While she did vaguely know who most people were that they were talking about, it held no merit for her to know anything about them.

After a while, Tolys offered to go and get more drinks, asking Natalya to come along to help carry them, seeing as the other three were engaged in a deep conversation about David’s boss and his latest journey abroad for Avant. Which really didn’t interest Natalya at all, and she was more than happy to be able to get up and stretch her legs.

Tolys leaned against the bar while they waited for the drinks, pointy elbows on the counter and hair falling into his face. He was biting his lip.

“So,” he started, and Natalya resisted the urge to sigh. “Are you… Enjoying yourself?”

“In a way,” she said. Behind the bar, the bartender was still busy – their order would probably take a while. God, but she needed a vodka to deal with this. She didn’t care what Tolys thought of her, particularly, but she wanted – _needed_ – to remain in Angélique’s good graces if she was to stand a chance at keeping up with Castil. The woman had saved her metaphorical life a dozen times over the past week.

“That sounds vague.” He smiled. “I’ve never really done this before. I thought Feliks was bad normally, but he’s ten times worse when he’s with Angélique. Not in… Not in an actual bad way.”

“I get it.” Natalya pressed her fingertips into her palms, but still saw a man trip over a sudden chair in his way from the corner of her eye. She did sigh, then. It always went haywire when she was uncomfortable. That was part of the reason why she tended to avoid people.

“You, ah…” Tolys tucked his hair behind his ear, then drummed thin fingers on his temple. “You look very nice.”

Natalya shook out the beer-soaked sleeve of her dress, but huffed a thanks. Thankfully, the bartender finally came around with the drinks they had ordered, and they made their way back to the booth. It was getting a little more crowded, but the Arc crew still didn’t really fit in. Feliks was now gesturing wildly, his shimmery shirt almost blinding.

Well, Natalya thought, as she let Tolys sit first so she was on the corner, it could definitely have been worse.

* * *

Later, after some truly terrible karaoke had started up in the background, Natalya hid her fifth yawn in as many minutes in her hand.

Fuck, was she getting old already? She used to be able to stay up all night without trouble. Then again, she didn’t work for Olympe Castil back then.

“You alright?” Tolys asked, lightly touching her still-damp sleeve. He blinked at his fingers in confusion.

“I’m tired. That’s just beer.”

He smiled a little bashfully, as if it was somehow his fault she was tired. “If half of what they’re saying about Ms Castil is true, I’m not surprised you’re tired. I’d be more surprised that you showed at all.”

“It’s definitely all true,” Natalya muttered, although she had no idea about the majority of the stories. “Definitely true.”

Across the table, Angélique seemed to have caught on to the conversation. Pulling her attention from David’s attempt to build a tower out of beer felts, which was looking quite impressive, she said, “Don’t let us keep you, Natalya! It was so nice of you to come, but you must be exhausted.”

Natalya pulled her sleeves down, sighing. It hadn’t been terrible like she’d feared, she hadn’t had to pay for her drinks, and she’d learned some new information about Castil. It was, all in all, a better evening than she could have predicted. She hadn’t even set anyone’s pants on fire, like that time back when she was a bartender.

To be fair, she had put it out, even if it was by throwing the drink the man had been trying to roofie all over him. That had been the final straw, she thought. She had been fired the next day.

Stefan had just said he was proud of her.

When she’d announced that she was going to go and mumbled some goodbyes and see-you-Mondays at her coworkers, she was mildly dismayed to find Tolys following her to the parking space out front. She let him be, gesturing vaguely at her scooter and bracing herself.

“So, Natalya, it was… It was nice to meet you,” Tolys offered. She nodded, searching through her bag for her keys. “Would you, uhm… Would you go out for coffee with me sometime? Maybe Monday? If Ms Castil isn’t keeping you.”

Natalya bit the inside of her cheek, not looking at Tolys. In a way, it was flattering, of course, to be asked out, and Tolys seemed like a tolerable enough person, but the last thing she wanted was for him to get the wrong idea.

“No,” she said, zipping her leather jacket up higher against the chill of the spring evening. And, as an afterthought, “Sorry.”

“Oh.” He looked down, running his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, maybe.”

With a nod, Natalya started her scooter, then started it again when it puttered out after five seconds, and sped home. Barranco would have closed the liquor store by now, but maybe Stefan had a drink she could finagle.

* * *

To her credit, Natalya went straight to bed after taking a quick shower, and the familiar sounds of the city nightlife downstairs quickly lulled her to sleep.

It was a dreamless sleep, and everything was still in its proper place when she woke, which was often different. It was not unusual for her to wake up with her clothes strewn everywhere or the window open when she always made sure to close it firmly. One time, she had even found her entire room flipped, with her bed teetering on the edge of the narrow stairs instead of pushed against the support beam like it was supposed to be. She had spent most of that day in the attic to put everything back, because of course the stupid power refused to work in her favor on anything.

But today, everything was normal.

After breakfast, Natalya finally went for groceries so she would at least have something to eat the coming week. She wondered if Castil did her own groceries or if she had someone do them for her like she had Natalya get sandwiches for her.

She shook her head. It was her day off, for god’s sake, she didn’t want to think about her stupid boss.

Back home, she found Boris snoozing in the patch of sunlight on her couch, the black leather of which was now covered in white hairs. When the Wi-Fi connected, she found the inevitable messages from Stefan asking if she had seen his cat. She sent him a picture.

“If you shit on my couch,” she told Boris, “I will turn you into a fucking hat.”

He just meowed. Natalya stuck her tongue out at him.

By the time Stefan came in through the balcony door to pick Boris up, which the cat, as usual, responded to by hiding behind the couch – Natalya really wondered why Stefan even bothered anymore – she had received no less than six emails from Masque, all of which she had gleefully ignored while she ate Bugles and read conspiracy theories instead.

“Maybe he should just live with you,” Stefan sighed, on his hands and knees next to the couch.

“I don’t want his hair all over the place,” Natalya replied, for the hundredth time, and as if that didn’t already happen. “Besides, he’d probably rip up my couch.” And she liked that couch, even if it was too big for the room and left her with no space to put a TV. But who needed a TV anyway, these days? The couch had been spared from Boris’s nails so far, but she suspected that was solely by virtue of the magic. At least it was good for that.

“He probably would, at that.” Still stretching his hand out to the disinterested cat, he asked, “Should I buy enough for two again this week or do you think your boss is gonna let up a little?”

Natalya huffed. “None of the above. I’ll survive.”

“I have no doubt,” Stefan said, sounding surprisingly sincere. Natalya hid a smile behind her hair and tugged her sleeves down absentmindedly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO FEATURING  
> Barranco - Cuba (his full name is Montego Barranco but don't ask me why he owns a liquor store)  
> Francis Bonnefoy - France  
> David Clarke - Australia  
> Tolys Laurinaitis - Lithuania


	2. is it right what i feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing art in this chapter is by [glittergraphy](http://glittergraphy.tumblr.com) and can be found [here](http://graphy-art.tumblr.com/post/161107706086/belarus-and-monaco-for-the-hetalia-big-bang-based)! Go reblog it! :O

As expected, Castil was furious about Natalya not reading her emails right away. Much as Natalya wanted to just let her magic to its destructive thing right then, she managed to restrain it somehow. Fuck, she should be getting paid extra for that. Maybe she could convince Bonnefoy.

“It was my day off,” she told her boss through clenched teeth. Her petite form was dwarfed behind the impressive bleached wood desk that seemed to take up half the available office space. Despite the fact that Natalya felt like she was doing all her work for her, the assorted clutter spoke of productivity. Pictures, papers, interview spreads, even swatches of fabric, held down by a statuette similar to Bonnefoy’s camel one. This one was an elephant.

Natalya hoped she was imagining its little trunk swinging back and forth ever so slightly.

“Fashion doesn’t take days off,” Castil said without looking up at her. Her computer screen was reflected in yet another pair of glasses, these round and rimmed dark green to match her blouse. How many pairs of glasses did she _have_? Stefan was always complaining about the cost of his single pair of reading glasses already. _Rich people_.

“But then again, I do not suppose you know much about fashion,” Castil added, now flicking a quick look at Natalya’s leather pants and deep purple shirt. “Now read those emails, Arlovskaya, and take these down to Sadık.” She gestured at a neat stack of colorful photographs, then turned back to her computer and started typing busily, case apparently closed.

She did this all the time. Acting like Natalya was just supposed to _know_ who the hell ‘Sadık’ was and where to find him. Angélique could usually help her out, but the woman was gone with Bonnefoy today, Natalya had no idea where. She could ask someone else, she supposed, wandering into the main office. The managing editor, Kveta Horáková, had been helpful a few times, in a professional way that Natalya appreciated.

But she seemed to be busier than last week, so Natalya decided to try and find out by herself. If nothing else, it’d give her some more time away from Castil. It was generally busier on the floor; the April edition of the magazine was coming out next Friday, and people were putting finishing touches on spreads, editing things together in little whirlwinds of activity that made her magic hum pleasantly. That was the good thing about working here. The weird powers seemed to resonate with other people enjoying their work.

Natalya took the elevator to the first floor, since apparently Sadık was _down_ somewhere. At the main publishing house, maybe.

_God_ , she hated Castil. It would have been such a small effort to just fucking tell her where to find the guy.

The floor of Arc was decorated more like the lobby downstairs, and was less busy than Masque’s office. Natalya sighed, loitering around in front of the elevator.

“Natalya! Hello!”

Oh, great. “Tolys. I’m looking for a Sadık.”

The man smiled faintly. His hair was in a small ponytail today, but he seemed to be wearing the same green sweater as before.

“You’re not going to find him here. He’s the editor in chief of Avant.” He flicked his gaze to the ceiling.

“Right.” She pressed the button for the elevator again. “Thanks.”

Tolys was biting his lip now, and just as the elevator doors slid open, he blurted, “So do you have any free time this week? I could buy you a coffee?”

With one foot in the elevator to keep the doors from closing and her fingers pressed into her palms so hard her nails were biting into the skin, Natalya shook her head.

“No free time. At all.” She stepped into the elevator, heels clicking on the metal floor. “Castil.”

“Cast— Okay, well…” The doors were closing. “Maybe another time?”

And maybe the doors slammed shut a little faster than was technically possible, but Natalya ignored that as she ignored most things her magic decided to do for her.

Avant’s office was yet different from Masque and the main publishing house, and much livelier than both. Someone was playing vaguely jazzy music in the back and someone else was talking loudly on the phone in a language Natalya couldn’t even identify. It smelled spicy for some reason, and the colorful decorations were a little overwhelming, like she had landed smack-dab in the middle of some faraway marketplace.

There didn’t seem to be a neat office for the editor in chief like Castil had, and Natalya knew no one here.

No, wait.

“David.”

The man in question looked up from some sort of spreadsheet on his computer, smiling a sunny smile. The name plate on the desk read _D. O. Clarke, Field Director, AVANT_.

“Ah, Natalya, right? What brings you here?”

She held the photographs out. “Castil said to take these to Sadık.”

“The big boss! Give them to me, I’ll make sure he gets them, yeah? Sometimes things end up in the wrong place by mistake.” He took the photographs, then tilted his head. “I don’t think it’s technically your job to do things like this. Aren’t there any interns at Masque?”

As she turned, Natalya muttered, “I’m doing a lot of things that aren’t my fucking job.”

“Take care!” David called after her. She sighed.

* * *

“Arlovskaya.”

Another day, another snippy Castil.

“Yes.” Natalya looked up from the woman’s schedule, which she was trying to organize. That _was_ actually her job. She’d checked the contract she had so foolishly signed.

“Go to the Cupboard and check with Feliks when the new shipment is coming in. The photographer isn’t going to be in town much longer, and we need those clothes.”

“It’s almost lunch,” Natalya replied petulantly. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast at eight.

Castil pursed her shiny pink lips. “I know. When you go down to the cafeteria, take a salmon baguette for me.” She turned, ever-present braid swishing over her shoulder.

“Sure. How many slices of cucumber should I ask for?” Natalya saw her boss’s narrow shoulders tighten, which was worth the scathing look she’d be receiving right about—

“I can’t say I care much about the amount of cucumber. Just get me a baguette. Thank you.”

Without looking, she scuttled back into her office while Natalya stared after her. What the _fuck_? What kind of half-decent… Was this a new tactic? Throwing Natalya off?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to fucking work.

“Well,” Feliks said after Natalya told him, because she was in the Cupboard now anyway, and if anyone was going to listen to her complain about the oddities of Olympe Castil, it’d be rumor king Łukasiewicz, “maybe she’s noticed that she can’t get rid of you. Besides, from what I can see, you’re doing a pretty decent job. You know, like, she can’t ignore that forever out of spite.”

Natalya raised an eyebrow. Feliks laughed, leaning back in his green chair, stretching much like Boris in the sunshine falling through the skylight. This part of the Cupboard was like a studio, all light colors and good lighting. Several mannequins were arranged against the wall, one or two with a full outfit on, but more with just one piece of clothing and some pins sticking out of them.

“You and me, sure, we could.” He winked. “Her, no. She’s raised too well for things like that.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Feliks.”

“Such is life!” He made a sweeping arm gesture, almost smacking a young man who just emerged from the dark depths of racks of carefully pressed, bagged and labeled clothing in the face. “Apologies. Oh, this is Luca, by the way. He’s got your job. Luca, this is Natalya, Olympe Castil’s PA.”

“Hi,” said the boy. He had long, dark hair and his lower lip was pierced twice. Natalya caught herself thinking that Feliks seemed to like unusual people. She tugged her trailing sleeves down over her hands. Then again, Feliks himself was also a little unusual, she thought, glancing again with mild astonishment at the fishnet stockings he was wearing underneath his ripped jeans.

“We’re slated to get a new shipment of clothes tomorrow,” Luca added.

“Summer collections!” Feliks enthused, flinging both arms out this time. Luca stepped back just in time.

Faintly amused, Natalya told them she’d pass the message and left them to their little frenzy about summer trends as she went to get herself and Castil lunch.

* * *

That was the most extraordinary thing that happened that week, and Natalya quickly decided it’d been a fluke. Despite appearances to the contrary, Castil came from high society, from a well-mannered family, and it was inevitable that whatever had been ingrained in her would float to the surface sometimes.

Stefan just snorted when she told him, then promptly started coughing.

“I’ve told you to stop smoking,” Natalya said drily, tapping on the window separating them. She refused to be in her neighbor’s direct vicinity when he used their tiny shared balcony to fuck up his lungs. “Don’t let Barranco see you.”

“It’s my balcony,” he insisted petulantly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “And anyway, why are you always so negative? Maybe your boss lady—”

“Castil.”

“—Castil is trying to reach out to you. You know, like…” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, the end of it glowing red in the early morning light. “Like an olive branch. Just because you’re so stubborn doesn’t mean everyone is.”

“Oh, fuck off, Borisov.”

“Just saying.”

Rolling her eyes, Natalya turned back to her large cup of coffee. It was far too early to discuss her boss’s nature with anyone.

It was always too early to discuss her boss’s nature. Period.

* * *

Maybe, as much as Natalya hated to admit it, Stefan had a point. Castil did seem less snippy, even if she was still rude and did not thank her again. But she didn’t seem to immediately assume that everything Natalya did was wrong, or eye up her clothes every morning with disgust writ plainly on her face, blue eyes flickering behind her ever-changing glasses.

This unnerved Natalya. She hated having to adjust her initial assessment of people. Once you were in a box, you were supposed to _stay there_ , not try to break the lock open and sneak somewhere else.

Angélique said it could just be the fact that the latest edition of Masque was now in print and things were a little quieter for a while, but she seemed dubious. Feliks was unavailable for comment, as he and Luca were veritably buried in clothes in their Cupboard. Bonnefoy, for his part, seemed to be radiating satisfaction from his office, even when a vase leapt on his head as Natalya walked past.

All this had the upside of Natalya’s powers settling, though. Becoming just that bit easier to control, so that the phone stopped being afraid of her and she could will the mail to sort itself on good days. It was odd, but Natalya found that she was settling herself. She hadn’t had a regular job in so long – it was almost a relief.

Until a day in early May when her magic _spiked_ , and the creative director, Huang Paredes, tripped and fell on the other side of the room, spilling papers everywhere, and Horáková got stuck in the elevator for three hours.

Natalya herself felt like she couldn’t breathe abruptly, just for a few seconds.

It was over quickly. Paredes got up. Horáková called maintenance. Natalya stared at her hands as if it was somehow their fault. Her powers had never done anything like this before. She felt vaguely betrayed, since it’d seemed to be going so well lately.

Tentatively, Natalya arranged some of the clutter that had accumulated on her desk into a row and, after a furtive glance around, tried to will it to arrange itself by size.

It didn’t work, but she couldn’t say she had expected it to. At least the magic hadn’t gone rogue on her all of a sudden. That was something.

“Arlovskaya?”

She looked up. “Yes.”

“What are you doing?” Castil raised her perfect eyebrows at the row of pencils and the tape holder and the N key of her keyboard, which had escaped yesterday morning.

“Magic,” Natalya muttered, poking at the key.

“Funny. Do that in your own time, yes?”

Oh, if she only knew…

* * *

It was finally starting to look like summer, which meant that Stefan was sneezing the whole street awake all hours of the day, Barranco was grumbling about cocktails when Natalya left for work, and that people were starting to side-eye Natalya’s clothes more than usual. Even Angélique seemed mildly confused, her today straightened hair falling across her face when she tilted her head at Natalya. True to her character, she didn’t say anything, and Natalya ignored it. She had gotten used to it over time.

Surprisingly, Castil didn’t comment. She just click-clacked into her office at top speed, only acknowledging that Natalya was present with a slight nod, which had been par of the course lately. Natalya had only a few days ago stopped being unnerved by it. She was working up to nodding back one of these days.

Today, however, both her and Angélique just watched in confusion as Castil inelegantly flopped down behind her desk and began tapping at her smartphone rapidly.

Still, Castil was Castil, so Natalya just shrugged at Angélique, who was looking a little concerned now, and went about her business. There was a bit of trouble with a photographer who had suddenly decided he didn’t want to work for Masque anymore. Paredes was adamant that his particular style was needed for the June issue of the magazine, and Natalya had somehow been dragged into the veritable _scheming_ that was going on. Somewhere along the line, she had gained the creative director’s trust, though she couldn’t say how.

In Castil’s office, something clattered to the ground, and when Natalya looked up, pleased smirk ready to come out, she found that the glass door was opening, the angry noise of Castil’s heels cracking loudly across the room.

“Arlovskaya, Angélique,” she called, then cracked back to her desk. Angélique and Natalya shared a confused glance even as Angélique was getting up from behind her own desk obediently. Natalya followed with a sigh, abandoning her half-finished email and hoping the computer wouldn’t eat it this time.

“Close the door,” Castil instructed, now resting her hip against the edge of her desk.

“Is something going _on_?” Natalya asked. The air was somehow heavy in the light space, the dust in the sunlight erratic, dancing towards her as if drawn by a magnet.

“Yes,” Castil replied curtly, but there was no venom in it. She tapped a manicured nail on her desk.  “Angélique, I need you to go through the director’s schedule and find any important appointments for today and tomorrow. Arlovskaya, you do the same for me, and see if any can be delegated to Huang or Kveta. I’m going to be acting as director for at least forty-eight hours.” She pressed her glossy lips together, looking up at both of them expectantly.

“Why?” Angélique eventually asked, voice small. “Did something happen to Francis?”

Castil’s jaw clenched and unclenched. A book teetered on the edge of its shelf; Natalya was trying so hard to mentally push it back, if only because Castil would probably find a way to blame it on her if it fell on her head, that she nearly missed the answer.

“Francis is fine, but our father was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital tonight, and he has flown out to be with him.”

_Flown out_. Natalya couldn’t entirely suppress a huff. _Rich people_. There was no answering glare. Weird.

Angélique was asking about Bonnefoy senior now, but Natalya couldn’t say she cared. _Director Castil_ probably meant more work for her. Great.

“Arlovskaya. My appointments, please?” Castil took a step towards Natalya, who started enough that she lost her concentration, and the heavy book hit the ground just a few centimeters from the woman’s high heels.

“Sure,” Natalya drawled, recovering quickly and turning to the door.

“Thank you,” Castil said, and another book fell on the concrete floor.

After Angélique and Natalya had worked out a schedule and presented it to Castil, Natalya found herself in the back of a ridiculously sleek car next to her boss, being ignored in favor of a smartphone. Which she was fine with, but remained annoying just on principle.

They were on the way to a conference Bonnefoy had been expected to attend, of all things – something about books and photography, which probably would have been enough to interest Natalya on another occasion, when she wouldn’t have to trail after Castil the whole while.

For the majority of the time, that was exactly what she did. She half-listened to Castil talk to other publishers, to some photographers, and handed her business cards of Arc Publishing without lowering her arm so she had to reach up to grab them. Even with the heels, Castil was still the tiniest person in the hall. It was petty and made Natalya feel slightly ashamed of herself, but Castil had thrown her off again by thanking her earlier, and if there was anything she hated, it was not knowing where she stood.

The worst and simultaneously best thing was that the conference itself was actually interesting. Natalya had never been a photographer herself, but the profession fascinated her. It was a way to make things very abstract, remove the emotion from them, or do the exact opposite. And photographs didn’t talk back.

Castil would be a good subject for that reason. Objectively speaking, the woman was pretty, much as it pained Natalya to admit that. Sure, she was tiny and could never be a model, but she exuded elegance even after long days that left Natalya feeling as though she looked like Boris after a bath. It made it a little easier to dislike her.

“Arlovskaya,” the woman in question said, voice low. When Natalya looked at her, she gestured her closer and nodded towards a small group of people talking a few meters away.

“What?”

“That’s Kalicky, the photographer you and Huang have been chasing after.”

How did she… Nevermind. There were a few men among the group, and Natalya had no idea which one of them was the infamous Zdeno Kalicky.

“Paredes says he’s important for the magazine’s style.”

“Please call him Huang, Arlovskaya. No one calls him Paredes.” Without waiting for a reply, Castil continued, “He’s talking to Lovino Vargas. I can’t believe it.”

Two of the men shook hands. Natalya, who had subconsciously leaned over to listen to her boss, shook her head.

“You’re aware that no one calls me Arlovskaya either, right?” Even Angélique had stopped a while back.

 Castil looked up at her. “That isn’t the point. If Kalicky is talking to a Vargas, we can forget about getting him to work on the June issue.”

“What? Why? He’s freelance, right?” Natalya would let the name thing go, for now. Castil’s blue gaze turned slightly incredulous, which was a surprising look on her.

“Has no one told you about Amata?”

“What the fuck is Amata?”

Pushing her glasses up and sighing, Castil turned back to the group of people, now talking seriously. Kalicky was probably the one not wearing a suit – he stood out.

“Amata is a magazine published by the Vargas family. They have won magazine of the year ahead of Masque three years in a row, which is unprecedented. Last I heard, they were setting up a culture magazine, undoubtedly to rival Avant.” Her jaw clenched, which Natalya couldn’t help but watch with something like fascination. Who’d have thought Castil actually had emotions about anything other than the amount of cucumber in her food? She hummed.

“But there’s plenty of other photographers, right?”

“If Huang says Kalicky is the right man, he is.”

“ _Right_.” When Castil turned a familiar glare on her, Natalya added. “Just saying, he may the creative director, but maybe that’s the reason you keep losing to these Amata people. You’re not innovative enough or something like that. You want to evolve, you have to bring in other people every once in a while.”

Castil remained quiet for a long moment, just looking up at Natalya. Her features remained set in a frown but her eyes were thoughtful somehow.

“That might be,” she eventually said, “the first smart thing I’ve heard you say.”

“I say plenty of smart things, Castil, you just don’t listen,” Natalya snapped immediately. _Really_. She was trying to be helpful here and that was the thanks she got?

“Yes, yes.” Castil glanced over at the ‘traitorous’ photographer again, then turned her back to Natalya, saying, “I want you to talk to Huang about this, yes?”

“Hm,” Natalya replied, baffled.

“And—” Castil looked over her shoulder, glasses flickering— “no one calls me Castil either.”

_What the fuck_.

* * *

So Natalya talked to Paredes – _Huang_ ; he did insist on being called by his first name himself – and the man happily agreed that the magazine could do with a small style update. When Natalya added that perhaps Feliks and his lately ever-present charge could shine a light over the clothes themselves, find ways to make them stand out more, the creative director had looked dubious and said he wasn’t sure if Olympe would stand for that.

 Both of them had glanced at the editor in chief’s office and Natalya had grudgingly promised she’d ask. She had no idea how long this lenient mood would last. Was it something permanent, or would she just snap back once Bonnefoy returned? Well, better make the most of it.

Now, the next day, Natalya could see her boss talking to _Huang_ even before walking over to her office, nodding as always as she passed. Natalya nodded back, ignoring the incredulous look she knew Angélique was giving her.

Something had shifted, apparently. It had _been_ shifting, of course, what with the nodding and the thanking Natalya, but this felt different. That one not particularly enlightened comment was all it’d taken? It didn’t make sense to Natalya.

“Castil is acting weird,” she told Feliks, later that day.

“No, you are,” he replied immediately, without even looking up from the shirt he was painstakingly re-attaching sequins to. “What happened to ‘ugh I don’t even care about Castil, I hope she chokes on her baguette’?”

“I’ve never said that,” Natalya replied, glaring at Luca, who had snorted quite loudly.

Feliks looked up with one bright green eye. “No, but your face spoke volumes. Has it occurred to you that, like, maybe you’re the one who’s been making this hard for yourself? Olympe hasn’t seemed so bad lately.”

She glared at _him_ this time. Wasn’t he supposed to be on her side?

“He’s right,” Luca mused, “maybe Olympe has been reaching out to you!”

“You sound like my neighbor, he said exactly that,” Natalya muttered. The boy grinned, clicking his fingers before pulling out a pen and starting to mark things on a clipboard. For some reason, there was a slight tingle in Natalya’s fingertips, but nothing weird happened, thank fuck.

“Your neighbor sounds smart, Nat,” Feliks commented.

“Is he cute?” Luca added. Natalya snorted.

“No, and he’s way too old for you. Anyway, you’re not helping.”

“Boo,” Luca said, which was even more unhelpful, so Natalya decided to leave them to it.

She had stopped by the Cupboard on the way downstairs, where she was going to get lunch, so she walked back to the elevator, only to find that, to her annoyance, there was someone else waiting too. Tolys Laurinaitis, of all people. He stepped into the elevator, and he’d seen her now so she couldn’t turn back, not if she wanted to remain in good graces around Arc.

“Hello,” Tolys said, after he held the door for her quite unnecessarily.

“Hi.”

“Getting lunch?”

Natalya breathed in through her nose and prayed that she wouldn’t crash the elevator.

“Yes.”

Tolys smiled. “Me too.”

No, _no_ , don’t ask, come _on_ —

“Maybe we could eat together?”

The lights flickered. Fuck.

“No, Tolys, really.” They reached the ground floor, and the doors thankfully slid open without a hitch. The scissor gate parted as well, and Natalya left the elevator as quickly as she could. “I’m _busy_ ,” she added.

“Oh, well… See you around, Natalya!” he called after her.

Natalya glared at the nosy receptionist, who pretended to be very interested in her nails all of a sudden, and strode outside. Apparently, today was going to be an overly expensive outside lunch day. So be it. It was well-deserved for more than one reason.

On the way back to the publishing house, carrying the remainder of her overpriced coffee, Natalya reflected on what Feliks and Luca had said. It was true that Castil – or, _Olympe_ – had been less rude lately she’d been in the beginning, but to say that Natalya was the one making it hard for _herself_ … Wouldn’t that mean that she’d been making a great many things hard for herself over the years? That’d be ridiculous. Besides, it wasn’t as if going from fucking freezing to merely cool in demeanor was such a big achievement.

By the time Natalya was back at her desk, she was in a decidedly foul mood, scowling at Angélique’s cheery greeting and burning her mouth on her last coffee, which had deemed it necessary to reheat itself to the point of boiling.

“Natalya,” Castil called, stepping out of her office. She actually took a step back when she met Natalya’s eye, almost tripping over her own ridiculously high heels. Angélique made a noise that held the middle between a gasp and a yelp.

“What is it,” Natalya sighed.

“You—” She straightened her pencil skirt. This one was a soft orange color. “I will not stand for this, Natalya. I want to speak with you.”

“Stand for what? Huang’s pretty pleased—”

“It isn’t that.” She glanced at Angélique, who was suddenly very busy on her computer, and pursed her lips. “You have been… A better employee than I perhaps expected, or was willing to expect. If I hadn’t noticed, Huang and Kveta certainly have.”

“And?” Natalya asked, vaguely flattered but wary. Now that Bonnefoy was gone for a while, Castil didn’t suddenly have the power to fire her, did she? The thought made her more anxious than she expected.

“ _And_ , Natalya, I am not stupid, despite what you appear to think. I know when someone is valuable. You are.”

Angélique made a choking noise again, but neither of them looked. Natalya held her boss’s gaze, trying to discern what she meant. She’d never really thought she was stupid, but hell if she was going to say that.

“You might not like me,” Castil continued, “and I might not even like you, but I am your boss and I wish to be able to work and talk freely and normally with you.”

Natalya bit the inside of her cheek.

“I understand,” she said. Something crackled beneath her fingers. Her desk better not catch on fire, for fuck’s sake.

“Good,” Castil replied. She looked away, adjusting her glasses – the wire-rimmed ones were back today. “I still need to speak to you about other matters.”

“Right.” Feeling more than slightly out of sorts, bad mood having turned into confusion and mild frustration at Castil having gained the upper hand, Natalya picked up her phone and made to walk to Castil’s office.

“No, we’re going to talk to Einar, the features editor.” She gestured her the other way. Natalya turned back. “And Natalya?”

“Hm?”

“My name is Olympe.”

Angélique coughed abruptly, and the printer in Bonnefoy’s empty office promptly spit out a couple dozen blank pieces of paper.

* * *

When Bonnefoy returned, things surprisingly carried on much the same way. Castil slowly became Olympe, and the less Natalya stumbled over the name, the more the woman in question seemed to value her opinion. She recognized that she was being manipulated in a way, but Natalya couldn’t say she cared much as long as she was heard. Her boss was still snippy at times, but hardly to the point of flat-out rudeness. Natalya, and her magic, settled more in response to that, although she kept feeling a strange tingle very often when she visited the Cupboard, something that she couldn’t place for the life of her.

She asked Feliks if he’d ever felt anything weird and just received a lengthy anecdote about a dress made of barbed wire. Apparently, it had been absolutely necessary for Feliks to try it on instead of using a mannequin as usual, which had resulted in him getting stuck in the thing for half a day and ending up covered in scratches. Natalya was too amused by the mental image to explain to him that that was not exactly what she meant.

She kept complaining to Stefan, because what else was he good for anyway, but was finding it harder to think of anything substantial to snipe at beyond the shit coffee in the cafeteria, Feliks’s gossiping about Angélique and David’s on-again, off-again relationship and the occasional Tolys Laurinaitis.

The June issue of Masque hit the stores without a hitch in the publishing, even if the more time Natalya spent in close proximity to _Olympe_ , the more she realized that, contrary to what her overall demeanor suggested, the woman was extremely clumsy. She was constantly tripping over things and had broken three heels by mid-June, only saved from twisting her ankle each time by Natalya’s magic lashing out to steady her.

It was only ever half-conscious, because the despite the fact that they were obviously on better terms now, Natalya would still be amused if Olympe did fall over.

Less half-conscious were her efforts to contribute something to Masque, aside from just running after Olympe and keeping her schedule. It felt good to be useful – she was even very pleased when Bonnefoy told her she’d been doing a good job, right before he tripped over his shoelaces and fell into his own glass door.

Huh. Must be a family thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO FEATURING  
> (a very small mention of) Einar Thomassen - Norway  
> Huang Paredes - Macau  
> Kveta Horáková - Czechia  
> Lovino Vargas - South Italy  
> Luca Rotaru - Moldova  
> Sadık Adnan - Turkey (yes that is TurkFra you see)  
> Zdeno Kalicky - Slovakia
> 
> watch me work ozsey into everything  
> also Romania is coming soon, not to worry :D


	3. at times i doubt what i normally know is real

On a sweltering morning in June, Natalya woke with an unsettling shiver creeping down her spine. She never had been good at making sense of her dreams, but the one she just had seemed… Significant. If only she could remember clearly. She felt as though she ought to be doing something, but frustratingly had no idea _what_.

After breakfast, she ambled out to the balcony, eager for some fresh air. The small space was already bathed in sunlight. Stefan was out smoking, but he lifted his head at her and stubbed out his cigarette. She sat down, and they watched the street come to life beneath them. Natalya plucked at her sleeves absentmindedly.

“You’re doing alright,” Stefan said. It didn’t appear to be a question, or a relevant one anyway, but Natalya nodded.

“Good,” he said, stained fingers drumming on the railing of the balcony, on which his ashtray was precariously resting. The smoke coming off his cigarette curled in shapes that were probably not dictated by any known law of physics. Stefan didn’t seem to notice, but then he never questioned the strange things that happened around Natalya.  She appreciated that about him.

“You know,” she said, “I ought to thank you, Stefan.”

He raised an eyebrow as if surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that. You helped, you ass, and I owe you for that.”

“Nat, you don’t owe me anything.” He huffed, scratching his stubbly chin. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

Biting her lip, Natalya shook her head.

“We’re _friends_ , okay?” Stefan continued. “I’m not keeping score of who owes who what. I’m not expecting you to.”

“I’m pretty sure having to pretend to be your girlfriend weighs heavier than eating your yoghurt anyway.”

“Please let that go.”

She smirked, standing up and stretching so that her sleeves fell back over her arms. She shook them back.

“Stefan, you know me, I never let things go.”

“I hate you,” Stefan mumbled, already reaching for his lighter.

“Also, just so you know, I just saw Boris down on the street.”

“ _What—_ ”

“Later, Borisov!”

Maybe today would be a good day after all, Natalya decided, as she managed to start her scooter on the first try and the wind cooled her down sufficiently on the way to work.

Or maybe… Not.

There was small crowd gathered out front of Arc, most notably containing Angélique, Olympe, and David Clarke. It was the latter who noticed Natalya first, raising a hand at her. She walked over.

“What’s going on here?” she asked.

“The director has had an accident, apparently,” David said, draping an arm around Angélique’s shoulders. On-again, then.

“What?”

“Francis was hit by a car,” Olympe supplied, voice hard like it hadn’t been for a while now.

“I did _not_ know that,” David said. He took a step back when Olympe glared up at him, obviously intimidated despite the fact that he was nearly half a meter taller than her. Natalya couldn’t help but be vaguely impressed, now that the glare was not directed at her. She was personally used to utilizing her height when it came to intimidation.

“But is he gonna be alright, then?” David asked, thick eyebrows tenting.

“I hope so.” Olympe swept her braid over her shoulder. “Sadık went with him to the hospital. Natalya, Angélique. We have some extra work to do, I suppose. Come along.”

So they did, Angélique with a pat on David’s arm.

Since Olympe was vice director of Arc, she would have to look after Bonnefoy’s business until he was out of the hospital, which, according to the message they received from Sadık Adnan in the early afternoon, could take a long time. But, Natalya caught herself thinking, if anyone could handle that, it’d be Olympe.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She was starting to like her.

“All right, Natalya, Kveta can take over some of my duties so I can take Francis’s. Angélique, I trust you can communicate with Arc downstairs and figure out what to do about the rest?”

“Of course,” she replied, wide-eyed.

“I will go tell them first. Natalya, let’s go.”

They walked to the stairs, which Olympe preferred over the elevator, and started descending. On the third floor, Feliks was out in the hallway, raising his eyebrows in question. Natalya just rolled her eyes at him. He stuck out his tongue.

On the second floor, the office of Avant outside the staircase was as much of a coordinated mess as usual. Natalya lingered a bit to peer curiously at a yellow contraption in middle of the large room that hadn’t been there last time, but snapped back when Olympe called her name. She looked down at her boss. The woman had turned backwards on the stairs, hands on her hips, and started to – _fall_.

She fell backwards, a high heel slipping off the step she was standing on. Natalya watched it happen as if in slow-motion, already feeling her magic surge and consciously trying push it forward, _out_. This would not be a funny fall at all. She had to stop it.

As if in slow-motion… _As if_ …

Natalya stumbled, but kept concentrating on Olympe. It was not _as if_. Oh, fuck. She had no idea she could do things like that.

Olympe was starting to raise her arms now, flailing extremely slowly in an attempt to steady herself. It was as if she were trying to grab on to invisible holdfasts. Quickly, Natalya descended the stairs until she was in a perfect position to catch her boss and push her back up. But how to get time back to its normal pace now?

The thought was barely finished before time did just that, and Olympe tumbled into Natalya with more momentum than anticipated, so that they both stumbled, but Natalya stayed upright and pushed her up. Olympe gasped. On her higher step, she was a little taller than Natalya.

“Thank you,” she breathed, before clearing her throat, shaking hands brushing off her skirt. “That was a very quick reaction.”

Natalya mumbled something, holding on to the stair rail because her vision was suddenly filled with black spots and she felt light-headed. Closing her eyes, she tried to keep standing straight.

“Natalya?” Olympe put a small hand on her shoulder.

Used too much power. It had never happened before, but that was the only logical explanation. Or maybe it had, that very first time… Natalya pressed her nails into the palm of her hands and opened her eyes again. Thankfully, everything was clearing already.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Moved too fast.”

A nervous laugh bubbled in Olympe’s throat. Natalya watched her mouth twitch with fascination.

“You _were_ fast,” she said. “I barely saw you move.”

With a slight squeeze of Natalya’s shoulder, she let go, stepped past her, and carefully descended the remaining steps.

“Let’s get some coffee when we’re done at Arc,” she added from down below. “I think we both need it.”

She had no idea.

* * *

Natalya, so it turned out, barely had an idea either, of how much extra work having to balance a double role for a longer period of time would pile on Olympe, and by extension, on herself – and  Angélique, who finally became a little less cheery under the pressure. Natalya had thought it’d be a relief, but she kind of missed the cheerful greetings or offers of going out that she never took her up on, and found herself mildly dismayed on her behalf when Feliks divulged that Angélique was in the off-again stage of her relationship with David Clarke.

Both of them staunchly ignored Luca’s slate grey eyes lighting up at the news – according to Feliks, he’d proposed to no less than four models who had come into the Cupboard for a fitting in the past week alone.

“I’ve gotta, like, beat it out of him at some point. It’s just not appropriate,” Feliks confided in her in a stage whisper. Luca snapped his fingers and threw a paper aeroplane at him, hitting him square in the forehead from the other side of the room. Natalya’s fingertips tingled again, but she had better things to do than wander around the Cupboard trying to figure out what was causing it. Later, maybe. For now, she just took the clothes she came for and got them back upstairs.

“Natalya, great,” Olympe said, walking by on the top floor, looking at her phone instead of where she was going. “Come with me, Huang needs some input.”

She did not see the shelf over her head suddenly come loose from the wall on one end, but Natalya did. She hissed a curse and prayed Olympe wouldn’t look when she managed to stop the assorted awards and books on the shelf from falling, but only mid-tumble. They flew back.

 _Good_ , at least—

The contents of the shelf ejected themselves from the other side with great force, and Natalya promptly dropped her stack of clothes. The trinkets flew over her boss’s head. They landed a ways off and crashed into the concrete floor. Olympe looked up. Natalya quickly knelt to gather the clothes, hoping no one saw that.

“What was— _Natalya_ , don’t drop that.” The still familiar disdainful tone was back. Natalya glared up at her. She should be getting paid _extra_ to protect her from this old-ass building.

“Too late now,” she just said, which she was aware was petulant, standing back up. “What does Huang need?”

Olympe looked up at her for a few seconds, then turned back.

“A photographer. The new style is being implemented in the July issue, so he wants my opinion.”

“Hm, I see.”

Which was, eventually, how they ended up in Olympe’s glass-paneled office flipping through pictures on her computer. Natalya honestly didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking for; everything looked alike to her. Beautiful people against vaguely pleasing backgrounds. Some black and white. Some interesting close-ups. Some—

“Go back,” she said, ignoring how her desk chair launched her upwards.

Olympe clicked back to the previous photograph, and hummed thoughtfully. It was all color, bright but not overwhelming, and the combination of angle and lighting cast unusual shadows on the model’s face and clothes.

“Who’s this?” Natalya asked, while she lowered her chair to its previous height.

“Dragos Rotaru,” Olympe read. Then, “Oh, good grief, Dragos Rotaru.” Natalya glanced at her, vaguely amused but mostly bewildered.

“What about him?” she asked, even as Olympe pulled up more of the photographer’s work. Everything had the unusual angles, and many of the pictures seemed to be taken outside, on-location, rather than in a studio.

“We worked with Rotaru for Avant. That was when Francis was editor in chief there, before our father ceded directorship to him. From what I understand, they had a… Disagreement. Francis claimed him insolent and gaudy and has refused to work with him ever since.”

“That’s stupid,” Natalya immediately replied. “He’s good.”

A small laugh escaped her boss. “That may be so, Natalya, but Francis is the director, after all, and I trust his opinion.”

“That’s also stupid.” And, in response to the flat look she received over the top of the red-rimmed glasses that seemed to be Olympe’s favorite, “It is. Not the trusting Bonnefoy part, per se, but the following him blindly. Even when he’s not around? This Rotaru guy would be perfect.”

“I…” Olympe blinked rapidly. Ah, great, now Natalya had pissed her off again.

“Just saying,” she added petulantly, tugging at her sleeves.

“I understand. You are correct, of course, even if there would have been subtler ways of wording it. The fact remains that we don’t know if Rotaru is willing to work with _us_ , of course.”

“No,” Natalya replied, stunned.

“I want you to go see him and convince him to work on the cover spread of Masque next month, yes?”

“Me?”

“This has been your idea.” A most interesting smile tugged at Olympe’s lips. Natalya, once again, couldn’t help but watch in fascination. “Dragos Rotaru will now be your responsibility. _Angélique_! I will need your assistance this afternoon!”

Outside, just a little while later, Natalya was unsure who could be proclaimed the winner of that little battle. She looked at the address programmed into her phone and sighed. The other side of the city, closer to where she herself lived in the old center, in this horridly humid weather…

Definitely Olympe who won. Definitely Olympe.

* * *

Dragos Rotaru apparently lived on the third floor of a run-down old building that could very well have been a fucking prison back in the day, going by the absurdly narrow windows. Natalya had never been particularly fond of her own place, with its cramped stairs and no windows at all in her attic bedroom, but she’d take that, Barranco included, over this any day. Good thing she never got into photography, she thought as she found the right doorbell to ring. It evidently did not pay well.

“Who’s there?” a hoarse voice came crackling over the speaker.

“Is this Mr Rotaru? I’m Natalya Arlovskaya from Masque magazine, I’ve got a job offer for you.” There was a moment of silence.

Then, “Really? Hold on a minute, I’m coming down.”

So Natalya waited, crossing her arms and uncrossing them when the movement made her dress stick to her back. It really was too warm.

“Hel-lo, what have we here?” the same voice as before called from the doorway. Natalya glared up at the owner of it; a spindly man who seemed narrower even than the building itself, wispy brown hair half pulled back into a ponytail framing deep-set eyes that merely twinkled in response to her gaze.

“Dragos Rotaru?” she asked sharply.

“That’s me,” the man confirmed, grinning widely. His tongue touched one of his canines. “So you’re from Masque? I was pretty sure they didn’t want me over there.”

“They changed their minds.”

“I see, I see. Wanna come in? You can explain the sudden change of heart to me at a more decent temperature.”

“Fine.”

Natalya’s fingertips had already been tingling, which she attributed to being out somewhere new, but as soon as she stepped past Rotaru into the hall of his apartment, it intensified to the point where it was just shy of painful. Luckily, Natalya had built up a good resistance to pain over time, so she was able to ignore it. Must be something in the air, like the Cupboard.

“Sit down. Want a drink?” Rotaru asked, behind her in the doorway to what she _presumed_ was supposed to be the living room. It contained barely any furniture at all, however. There was a low table, and there were pillows, none matching, arranged – or more accurately _thrown_ – into a giant heap, with more lying around. The largest heap looked very much as though it shouldn’t be able to stay in that shape by itself.

“I don’t need a drink,” she said to an amused Rotaru, who shrugged and let himself fall back into the large pillow mountain, which somehow didn’t fall apart. True to his word, all the windows were closed and the blinds drawn, while a fan was on full-blast, so the weird room was at least nice and cool. Natalya gingerly sat down on a smaller pillow heap. There were photographs all over the walls, but they didn’t seem to be taken by Rotaru himself. Some were evidently old, but seemed to be doctored. There were lots of castles and skylines, not arranged in any pattern that Natalya could see.

Alright, so he was eccentric. Fine. She could do eccentric.

“I understand you had a falling out with director Bonnefoy a few years back.”

“Just a year or two, I think.” From somewhere among the pillows, the photographer unearthed a stack of cards. Natalya tried to ignore him shuffling them. _Eccentric_. Eccentric, but the person we need.

God, when did she start caring about Masque?

“When is irrelevant.”

“Is it, really?” He drew one of the cards and grinned at it, corners of his eyes crinkling up.

“What’s important is that Masque would like to work with you now, on the July issue, Mr Rotaru.”

He drew another card and grimaced. “You can call me Dragos, I’m getting the feeling…” A third card; his thin eyebrows rose. “I get the feeling we’ll be seeing each other more often. Can I call you Natalya?”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she replied, “If you wish. Can I take that to mean you will be accepting the job?”

“I expect so, isn’t it?”

Exasperated, Natalya caught the man’s gaze. His eyes were deep rust-brown, nearly red. She’d never seen the color before, but then she’d never met anyone with the curious violet undertone in their eyes that she herself had either.

“Yes or no, _Dragos_. It isn’t so difficult.”

“Yes,” he just said, then stuck his hand out. His nails were covered in chipped blue nail polish.

“Good.” Natalya took the hand, then abruptly let go, hissing, when something like an electric shock shot through her body.

The photographer sprung back as well, shaking his hand as if burned. The fan crackled and stopped. Both their pillow heaps fell apart.

“Oh,” Dragos said, from the floor, half-hidden by the cushions collapsed on top of him. “I guess that explains a lot.”

“What the fuck does _what_ explain?” Natalya burst. Her entire right hand felt stung, and she had landed unluckily on her ass when the pillows gave way. “That your place can’t handle a fucking magnetic shock?”

“No, _Natalya_.” He had struggled up and was now looming over her in all his novelty T-shirt-clad glory.

“Then what?”

He snapped his fingers, and the fan spun back to life. The pillows – moved. The pillows moved of their own accord back to their previous positions, except one that catapulted Natalya into a standing position.

“I sure hope I’m right about this, otherwise I imagine I have a lot of explaining to do,” Dragos said, sheepishly tugging at his earlobe and biting his lower lip.

“What,” Natalya started, professional demeanor completely lost somewhere along the line, “the _actual fuck_?”

On the last word, the fan stuttered out again.

“That, the actual fuck. Can you please leave my fan alone, I need that.” He snapped his fingers again, and it whined back to life once more. “I could plug it in, of course, but why waste money on something that simple when this works just as well?”

No. There was no way that— Natalya had never met anyone with powers like hers. Never had she even thought about the possibility that there might be others. Yet…

“You’ve got magic,” she heard herself say.

He grinned, slightly softer. “So I do. I didn’t know there was anyone outside my family who could… We’re not related, are we?”

“I sure hope not,” she said disdainfully.

“You wound me, Natalya. I have a brilliant little brother, I’ll have you know that.”

“I – honestly don’t care, okay? Just—”

“I could help you, you know,” he interrupted. “You’ve got no control over it. Or barely any. Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault the reaction was so violent, I’m certain.”

“And… How would you _help_ me?”

“I helped my brother too. It’s really not that hard to control, I promise.” He shook his hair out of his eyes. “Unless, of course, you don’t have the strength of mind for it, I assume.”

“Do not bait me. It won’t work.” She looked up at the dark eyes, the lopsided grin. “In whatever way you’re thinking of, it won’t. I don’t need you, or want you.”

He held her gaze for a while longer, then shrugged.

“Oh well, sure thing then. Email me the information about Masque. I’m sure we will see each other around. I’ll convince you yet.”

They walked back to the hallway, the walls of which were also covered in photographs. Not the sleek, professional kind, or the weird assortment from the living room. Just snapshots, holiday pictures— Natalya stopped, and frowned.

“What’s your brother’s name?” she asked.

“Hm? Ah, Luca!” Dragos grinned proudly when she looked back at him, pointing at a picture. “That’s him, there. He goes to art school now. I kinda miss him being around.”

“He…” Well, that certainly explained the tingling that happened at the Cupboard. “He works for Masque. Every time I meet him, I can feel this something…”

“I think you’re a little old for him. No offense.”

“I’m twenty-five, Dragos, and _not like that_.”

“Yeah, and he’s nineteen. But, I mean, really? I didn’t even know. God, I’m such a bad brother!”

Astonished, Natalya watched the photographer’s eyes start shining suspiciously. He wasn’t going to cry, was he? He better not start to cry. She was out of here if he did.

“I have to go. I will email you later…”

“I’m coming with you! I gotta see Luca.”

“He’s doing fine. Great, even. There’s no need—”

“There is! I’ll go get my bike and—”

“I’m serious, there’s no fucking need—”

“If I stay here, will you let me teach you magic?” he asked, hoarse voice suddenly low and serious.

“What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mutually beneficial, yeah? Though more so for you, when you think about it…”

They stared at each other for a while, Natalya angrily and Dragos trying to look innocent.

“For fuck’s sake! Fine, then! But leave me alone until then. Now can I _please_ leave?”

“Of course!”

The front door of the apartment swung open of its own accord, cracking against the wall.

“You definitely have to work on you control, see?”

“Leave me alone, Rotaru.”

“See you!” he called down the stairs.

Natalya was so wound up that it took her seven tries to start her scooter and she almost hit several people along the way, ending with a startled Tolys Laurinaitis out front of Arc, where he was sitting in the shade eating a bagel.

“Hey, Natalya,” he greeted. “Want a bagel?”

“Tolys,” she started, voice startlingly low even to her own ears, “I am not in the mood for this.”

“Alright, sorry.” The man sat up. “Another ti—”

“Tolys, I am _lesbian_. And even if I weren’t, you have to just stop fucking asking at some point. Okay?” Without waiting for his reaction, she stomped inside. The glass doors slid close behind her so fast that she was pretty sure she heard a crack.

Work on her control… Damn Rotaru.

* * *

 

It was barely a week before she met the man in question again.

Before that happened, though, she got in a good long rant to Feliks while Luca was somewhere else. He looked vaguely guilty when she was done.

“Tolys isn’t so bad,” he said. “I mean, he’s nice, but he’s had hard times, and now he has this attitude towards life that’s, like, ‘anything is possible if you set your mind to it and keep trying’, which I may have had a hand in. And, you know, that works with many things, but not with people. Not like that.”

“That’s no excuse,” Natalya said, still angry. “And whose side are you on, anyway?”

“My own. Tolys is a good friend, but I agree he’s been, like, out of line even if he didn’t force you or anything. I’m just trying to make you understand where he’s coming from, alright? I’m sure he feels totally terrible about it.”

She sighed deeply, running her fingers through her hair. The tingle was not present today. And good thing, otherwise her – righteous – anger would surely have caused destruction in the Cupboard already.

“By the way, did you hear?” Feliks asked, changing tack. “Marco Vargas has finally ceded control of his publishing house to his grandsons. They say he’s ill.” At Natalya’s blank look, he continued, “That’s interesting! Who knows how they’ll update Amata!”

“Amata is not my concern. My concern is getting Dragos Rotaru off my back.”

 Feliks grinned. “I believe in you, alright? You sure you don’t want Luca to know?”

Unexpectedly touched by the words, Natalya couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“I’m sure he’ll find out, and thanks,” she mumbled, standing up and walking to the door.

“That’s what friends are for!” he called after her.

 _Apparently_ , Natalya thought. Apparently they were.

This time, Dragos was at least wearing decent clothes, and he seemed to know what he was doing as he talked to Huang, showing him things on his camera. The shoot had been this morning, somewhere outside. There had been no need for Olympe, and by extension Natalya, to be there, so neither of them had seen the photographer yet today. Natalya had the sinking suspicion he was there for her; most photographers, especially the freelancers, never even set foot on the floor of Masque.

And, sure enough, the man walked over to her desk when he was done annoying Huang – who hadn’t actually looked annoyed, much to Natalya’s chagrin. He’d been bemused at best. Or worst.

“Nice desk, Natalya.” Dragos tapped it. His nails were now black.

“Nice fingers,” she said, not looking up at him. “You better get them off my desk before something happens to them.”

Dragos made a small noise but did, in fact, draw his fingers back. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Really, did you? Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m sure you are.” He leaned a bony hip against the desk. “When are you done? We’ve gotta start those lessons at some point, you know?”

Natalya sighed. It was true that she would like not to blow things up at every turn or have to convince household items not to be afraid before being able to use them, but why did it have to be this… This _weirdo_ who could teach her how to do that?

“I’m done in an hour, probably,” she replied. “So can you please fuck off until then?”

“So rude.” But he nodded and winked, and waved at Angélique as he walked away. The woman raised her eyebrows at Natalya, who could only shrug. There wasn’t a good way to explain this. She’d have to think of something if this took long. Good thing she’d always been a quick learner.

When Olympe could finally let her go an hour and a half later, she surprisingly found Dragos still around, hanging in the lobby downstairs talking to the receptionist. She looked slightly afraid, or at the very least out of her depth. A tiny little bit of Natalya’s contempt for the man melted away, but it came back full force when he announced he’d been taken here after the photo shoot, at his request, so he didn’t have transportation but he was sure he could ride with her, right?

“Fine! But I don’t have a spare helmet, so if you die, it’s your own fault.”

He smiled. “I won’t. Magic, remember?”

That… Might actually be useful, Natalya thought but didn’t say. Never mind that her own power would probably kick in if she had an accident; it hated having her be hurt, apparently, but didn’t always do the right thing.

And so Natalya arrived home with Dragos clinging to her from the back of the scooter, harder than was probably necessary.

“We’re here now,” she announced. “You can stop trying to practice the Heimlich on me.”

He mumbled something indecipherable but pried himself loose from her back.

“‘Thanks for the ride, Natalya’,” she said in a high voice. Dragos glared at her, and she had to bite down on a pleased grin.

“You live over a liquor store?” he asked, turning around as she put her scooter away. “That’s wild.”

“That is one way to describe it,” Natalya said. She led both of them through the narrow hall next to shop and Barranco’s apartment behind it, to the stairs up to where she and Stefan lived. Out on the landing, the fluffy white shape of Boris was sitting rather morosely, so it seemed, in front of Stefan’s door.

“Cat!” Dragos exclaimed, as if he were seven years old and had never seen anything so exciting in his life. “ _Here_ , cat cat cat – is he yours?”

“No,” she said as she unlocked her door, “but he hates everyone but me.”

“Are you sure?” Dragos asked. Natalya looked down at him, where he was now kneeling, to find that Boris had actually let himself drop to his back and was allowing the photographer to pet him.

“Apparently not,” she sighed. Figured. “Come on.”

“What’s his name?”

“Boris.”

“That’s a stupid name for a cat. No offense, Boris.”

“His full name is Czar Boris XXXVIII. My neighbor is more of a weirdo than I give him credit for. Come _on_ , Dragos.”

He stood up. “Your neighbor sounds interesting, but alright, I can see you’re impatient.”

God, this was going to be a long afternoon.

When, finally, Dragos had stopped commenting on her mismatched furniture – at least she _had_ furniture, the hypocrite – and managed to claim Natalya’s favorite chair, where he was now lounging with Boris, who he somehow smuggled in, resting snugly in his lap, the first thing that he asked was, “When did your magic first manifest?”

Natalya breathed out sharply through her nose and tugged on her sleeves so that they nearly covered her hands. She’d been wearing billowy things lately, trying to account for the heat.

“How is that relevant?”

He shrugged. “Isn’t it always good to know where something comes from? Besides, I have a theory about it but only two known subjects. I’d like more confirmation.” A pause. “But another time would also work. It’s personal, especially if I’m right.”

“Right.” She had to admit she was curious. Maybe at some point she’d tell him. Maybe.

“Hm.” He stroked Boris’s back absentmindedly, and the damned cat actually purred. Maybe he liked magic. Wouldn’t that be stupid? “So then I should ask; what emotion elicits the strongest response from your powers? Mine goes haywire when I’m afraid. For Luca, it’s when he’s sad.”

“Anger,” Natalya replied, without even thinking about it.

“Figures.” Dragos grinned. “Well – don’t look at me like that – what I did when I was first trying to control it, is I would try to think of something that had the potential to make me afraid, yeah? So that I could kind of control that emotion, and the magic, or whatever you want to call it, with that.”

“I… Understand. But that means that every time you use—”

“No, no, after a while it wasn’t necessary to do that anymore. It became an automatism. I can’t really explain that part.” He laughed a hoarse laugh. “To be honest, I can explain fuck all about the whole thing, I’ll tell you that. I’m flying by the seat of my pants, but I’ve been doing so for twenty years now.”

“Twenty— How old are you?”

“Twenty-six, why? When did yours manifest?”

“I was sixteen,” Natalya replied. No _wonder_ she sucked at this. “I—” She shook her head.

“Hm, then my theory might just be correct. But I’m sure we’ll find that out later. You should practice! I used a target that I tried to hit with stuff at first. It’s good for control.” He snapped his fingers and pulled a piece of paper out of nowhere, then a pen, and started drawing on the paper. With another finger snap, the paper attached itself to the wall opposite the balcony windows. Natalya could already tell there was no way she’d be able to hit that with anything, but like hell was she going to tell Dragos that. Even if that resulted in her launching things into the adjoining kitchen, and, with her luck, breaking all her glasses – she could just blame him if that happened.

“Well, you seem to be getting angry already,” Dragos remarked drily. “The trick is not to let it overwhelm you. You’ve gotta be stronger than the emotion.”

“Fuck off, Rotaru,” she said, and scowled when he just grinned and threw some sort of ball at her. It was the size of a tennis ball, but soft, so it regrettably wouldn’t hurt if she managed to hit him. Not much, anyway. She imagined it would still be very satisfying.

“Lesson one,” he announced, “telekinesis. Go!”

The best way to get rid of him as soon as possible was to do as he said, so Natalya focused all her anger on the stupid ball.

And almost punched a hole in the wall when it launched itself away in apparent terror.

“At least it moves,” Dragos said cheerily, holding Boris’s paws up as if in a cheer. Natalya growled. The ball jumped up again.

By the time there was a knock on the balcony door, thankfully as she was taking a break, Natalya had managed to hit the stupid piece of paper exactly once and Dragos, theoretically, twice. He managed to stop the ball or frustratingly transform it into something else before it’d hit him every time. Natalya was so _done_. Her last tries had been half-hearted at best.

“Nat?” asked Stefan, opening the door. “Have you seen Boris— _Oh_.”

“Hel-lo,” Dragos greeted, sitting straighter up. “This your cat?”

“Uhm, I— Yes, he’s… Being unusually well-behaved, there.”

Dragos grinned. “He likes me. I’m Dragos, I’m a friend of Natalya’s.”

“Co-worker,” she interjected. Stefan quirked a small smile. He thankfully didn’t comment on the dents in the wall or the target stuck to— _And_ the target was gone, as were the dents. Of course.

“I’m Stefan. I’m her neighbor. I, ah, I have to – take my cat, I’m afraid. He has to go to the vet.”

“Sure, no problem.” Dragos smiled disarmingly, touching his tongue to his teeth again. He stood up, still holding Boris, and somehow turned out to be just a tiny bit shorter than Stefan. Natalya would have thought he was taller, but she supposed that was just those gangly limbs of his. She watched Stefan run his hands through his dark hair and bite his lip and resisted the urge to sigh demonstratively, because as the guy’s friend, she should probably not get in the way of his awkward flirting.

She did wish she could record it to show Feliks. And Luca, just to mortify the kid. She wouldn’t want to see her own brother flirt even if he were good at it. Maybe he was, these days, though she couldn’t imagine. She hadn’t seen in him in quite some time.

Finally, Stefan left with a struggling Boris, and Dragos whistled between his teeth when the door had closed behind him.

“I am _very_ motivated all of a sudden, Natalya.”

“I bet you are,” she replied drily. Somewhere, she was looking forward to giving him a shovel talk.

“How old is he?”

“What – Stefan? He’s 34.”

“Oh.” Dragos grinned. “ _Nice_.”

“So I’m too old for your brother but Stefan is not too old for you when the age difference is bigger? Double standards there, Rotaru.”

He just laughed and stretched sideways in the chair, thin legs poking over the armrest.

“Not as if you’re interested in Luc anyway, are you? What are you looking at me like that for? Am I not allowed to sit like this?”

In response, Natalya focused, and managed to hit him square in the face with the ball. He spluttered.

“Lesson one is complete,” she announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO FEATURING (sort of anyway)  
> Marco Vargas - the Roman Empire
> 
> Romania is here!


	4. right now i don't know what to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the art in this chapter is also by the amazing [wandschrankheld](http://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com) and you can find it [here](http://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com/post/161144935189/despite-her-small-height-she-was-impossible-to)!

 

Angélique seemed intrigued.

For her part, Natalya was just annoyed.

“For god’s sake, Dragos, did I not give you my phone number?” she burst at the man in question, who had shown up at Masque, just a day or two after their first _lesson_ , completely unannounced. Natalya had the sinking suspicion that, if she asked the receptionist downstairs, she wouldn’t even have seen him, and _not_ because she was busy painting her nails or whatever she did behind that desk.

“You’re not answering.” He pouted.

“I’m _at work_. Maybe you should ask your brother what it’s like to have a normal job.”

“You wound me.”

“Is there a problem, Mr Rotaru?” Olympe cut in sharply. “You can talk to the receptionist to make an appointment, if needed.”

The photographer opened and closed his mouth a couple of times while both Natalya and Angélique were unsubtly hiding their grins.

“I see, I see. I’ll text you then, Natalya.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said, turning back to her work when he finally left again.

Olympe tapped her desk. “Why was he here?”

“He thinks we’re friends.” Natalya shrugged.

“He _thinks_ – well, all right, then.” She turned to walk back to her office, trailing her manicured fingers along the edge of Natalya’s desk absently. It was an oddly human gesture of her, one that seemed very nearly out of place on someone who so rarely stumbled on her perfect façade, discounting, of course, the times when she literally stumbled and Natalya had to save her from herself yet again. Or from… A decidedly hostile environment.

Natalya shrugged again, and had just turned back to her computer when there was another shadow looming over her desk.

“Dragos, I fucking told you—” She looked up and found not the photographer, but Tolys Laurinaitis, looking apprehensive.

“Natalya, I’m sorry,” he blurted, forestalling anything she might have wanted to say. “I know you probably don’t want to see me and I’ll leave right away but I wanted to have said that. I was out of line.”

“So you were.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Did Feliks set you up to this?”

He shook his head vehemently. “I did talk to him, but I am actually…” He chuckled self-depreciatingly. “I am actually a decent person, believe it or not. The offer to buy you lunch still stands, but I can’t imagine you’re interested.”

“I…” Natalya shook her head to clear her mind. “If you think that you are – I don’t know – going to _change me_ or anything, you can—”

“No, no, I have no such illusions. Just as friends, or coworkers, or vague acquaintances.” He glanced sideways at Olympe’s office – she was looking away. She probably wasn’t happy that Natalya was being kept from her work. Natalya herself wasn’t.

“I will… I’ll think about it, Tolys,” she said, surprising herself more than him. He smiled and promised to look forward to it.

She felt oddly satisfied when he’d left and Angélique had cracked a surprised smile at her. Maybe she was mellowing in some way. The thought didn’t scare her, or not as much as it once would have.

“You up for lunch?” she asked Angélique, without thinking about it.

“Sure!” She seemed happy.

Natalya glanced once more at Olympe, who quickly looked away in turn. Huh.

Alright then. Lunch with Angélique it was.

* * *

 _Lesson two_ with Dragos Rotaru was, so Natalya decided, as frustratingly useless as the first one, and it did _not_ help that Dragos kept glancing at the balcony door while Natalya was trying to summon some napkins from her kitchen to the couch where she was sitting. They had started out with cutlery, but realized that was a bit of a safety hazard after a stray fork very nearly took Dragos’s eye out. It was funnier to hit him with something less potentially maiming, Natalya had to admit. She was less likely to go to jail for it, for one.

“Stefan is at work,” she eventually just told him, making the napkins prod against a sharp cheekbone. Good thing Dragos was so _stupid_ , really. She got angry just looking at the guy, so the magic didn’t require much thought. Or maybe she _was_ getting better already.

“Hm? Ah, really? What kind of work does he do?”

“I honestly have no idea. He could be a criminal for all I know. Don’t look so fucking excited at the prospect, you freak.”

He just grinned.

“Who doesn’t like a bad boy?”

“Me. And I don’t want to talk about my neighbor, who is not a bad boy in any way, shape or form. You’re supposed to be helping me.” The napkins fluttered everywhere on the last word.

“So mean. Isn’t she mean, Boris?”

“ _Boris_ — Where the hell did he come from?”

“He was here all along, Nat.”

“Don’t—” She sighed. The cat hadn’t been around just a second ago, she was five hundred percent sure of that much, but, “Whatever. Just help me instead of pining over my neighbor.”

“What’s the magic word?”

She frowned at him.

“The magic word!” He mouthed, ‘ _Please._ ’

“Fuck you, Rotaru,” she said instead, and the napkins whacked him in the face once more, while something in the kitchen fell and shattered on the floor. Natalya hoped it was not her vodka. She was going to need that.

“It might just be, in your case.” And, in response to the confused, angry look he received, “You know why I snap my fingers so often? It’s like a way to tell the magic to turn itself on, or something. It becomes easier to focus. Luca does the same thing, but I imagine it could be different for different people. Maybe you should swear!”

“That wouldn’t make any sense. I swear all the time. There’s no way that would work.”

“A specific word might. One you don’t use a lot. But then that might be weird. You could always snap your fingers as well or something. Clap your hands, click  a pen. It’s about the response, not the action itself. I guess you call that Pavlovian?”

Natalya was silent for a moment, distantly impressed despite herself. Dragos really had put a lot of thought into this, hadn’t he? Unlike her. She had just tried to _ignore_ the power brimming in her body, like it would go away. She might have been able to figure all this out years ago if she’d just have acknowledged it. How stupid. Another chance wasted. She could add that to her list.

“When did you get your magic?” she suddenly asked.

Dragos looked up from petting Boris and tugged at his earlobe.

“I was six,” he started. “Luca was just a few months old, and I already loved him to death. One day, we were going to go out somewhere with our parents. Luca was in a baby stroller. I, ah, I remember we lived in one of those buildings on the outskirts of town, with the stairs in front of them, you know? Anyway, Luca was at the top of those stairs in his stroller, and somehow he just… Slipped down, stroller and all.”

Natalya couldn’t help but breathe in sharply.

“Yeah, right? Steep stairs, fucking traffic everywhere. I still remember my mom screaming. But then the stroller just – stopped. Or not really _stopped_ , more like slowed down, like it was falling through syrup. And it landed right back on its wheels. Luca was completely fine. Everyone called it a miracle.” He chuckled. “I did faint, but that seems very minor weighed against my little brother’s life, you know? Looking back now, it’s possible that he could have saved himself if it came to that, but I have no idea how early the magic can really start working. Why did you ask?”

“You… Your magic started working because you saved someone else’s life.” She closed her eyes. “What about your brother himself?”

“He almost drowned – should have drowned – at the beach when he was ten. But he didn’t, just came back up after minutes and didn’t even understand why we were all panicking.” There was a pause, a heavy swallow. “Neither of us could save our parents, though. It only goes so far.”

A longer pause followed. Natalya tugged at her sleeves. Dragos gnawed on his lower lip.

“Your theory,” Natalya eventually started, “is that the magic manifests in response to a life-threatening situation, right?”

He nodded, still biting his thin lip and burying his fingers in Boris’s white fur.

“It might be right,” she rushed out. “Mine did, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pressed her nails into her palms. The sting was good. It grounded her. Perhaps that could be her focusing thing.

“Good to know,” Dragos just said, in a display of common sense she hadn’t expected from him not asking anything more. She could tell him if she wanted. She remembered every single second of that day. But she didn’t want to.

He looked at her clenched fists. “And is that a thing?”

“That’s definitely a thing.”

“Good. Very good. Then I think we’ve done enough for today! Although I do have one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have your neighbor’s phone number?”

* * *

It seemed as though Olympe’s clumsiness was increasing, this much to both Natalya’s frustration and concern. Weren’t there illnesses that made you clumsy? The extended Bonnefoy family wasn’t having much luck if that was the case here.

Thanks to her now regular _lessons_ with Dragos, who she still hadn’t managed to convince not to show up at Masque even if it was funny how much the receptionist was starting to hate him, she was actually becoming better at controlling her powers, but it was still troubling to have to keep saving her boss from herself.

“Natalya, I need you to do something for me,” the woman in question was saying, as they were both walking into the lobby one afternoon. Angélique was trailing behind, flipping through papers on her clipboard.

“Isn’t that my job?” Natalya asked drily. She didn’t except the huff of laughter she received in answer, but found that it was oddly pleasing.

“So it is. Please go and ask Sadık if Avant could miss a few photographers for some days. Kveta and Huang have an idea that requires them.”

“Oh?” The managing editor and the creative director had embraced the new style of Masque so readily that Natalya thought they might just have been too wary of Olympe’s reaction to issue it anyway. Good to know she was useful. The two of them and some assistants had been out for a while now, doing god knows what.

“You know I’m not a messenger, right?”

Olympe looked up at her with raised eyebrows, but there was obvious amusement in the blue eyes.

“Alright,” Natalya conceded. “Fine, have it your way.”

“Don’t I always?”

This was something quite new. The easy conversation between them. It started with Olympe asking why the hell Dragos was showing up so often, albeit in less strong words, then her casually asking about Natalya’s day during lulls in activity after she found out they were ‘friends’. Angélique had looked incredulous every time, but never when Olympe was looking. Undoubtedly, she was the one who told Feliks about the situation, but that was a different story altogether.

Olympe was proving to be unexpectedly amusing. Now that she appeared to have dropped the terrible temper somewhere, she could parry Natalya’s comments, and Natalya was enjoying herself, in some way.

“I’ll go talk to Sadık,” she promised. “How many photographers do they need?”

“Just about— What is _he_ doing here?” she burst, simultaneously getting her heel stuck between the floorboards and pitching forwards. Natalya pressed her fingers against the palm of her hand and willed the heel loose so that her boss stumbled but stayed upright.

Satisfied, she turned to – Dragos Rotaru, looking appreciative and leaning against the reception desk. Oh, _for fuck’s sake_.

“Mr Rotaru,” Olympe started before Natalya even managed to open her mouth, “can I help you?”

“No, no, I really just wanna ask Natalya—”

“If you’re not here for business, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Natalya muttered to Angélique, who had finally caught up with them and was looking contemplative in addition to amused, her trusty clipboard pressed against her neat yellow polka dot sundress.

Dragos smiled lopsidedly, seemingly unbothered. “Hey, Nat—”

“ _Mr Rotaru_ ,” Olympe snapped. “My assistant has things to do and none of them involve you. Please leave before you are banned from working with Masque as well.”

“Oh, tetchy. Alright, alright. See you later, Natalya.”

She managed to keep the sliding doors shut for just a little bit too long and make them close a little bit too fast so that he had to leap away. It was extremely satisfying.

What he wanted to ask, she couldn’t imagine. Maybe something about Stefan again, as he always seemed to do. She’d surely find out soon enough.

Since Angélique also had business at Avant, the two of them took the elevator to the second floor together.

It was a short ride, but they still almost got stuck when Angélique innocently asked, “So why do you reckon Olympe is so jealous of Rotaru? Whoa! Did you feel that? The elevator just bumped or something!”

“No, I didn’t,” Natalya lied, sighing in relief when the doors opened. She should just start taking the stairs. If Olympe and her ridiculously high heels could do it, so could Natalya and her less ridiculous but still high heels.

“Really?” Angélique trailed after her, staunchly ignoring David behind his desk. There was a Christmas tree right in the middle of the floor now, lights and all. Avant was a strange place.

After delivering her message to Sadık Adnan, who she barely knew but seemed like a good guy, Natalya found Angélique waiting by the door to the staircase. Ah, good _going_ , now she’d scared her out of using the elevator.

“But really,” Angélique continued, as if nothing had happened. “Don’t you think she is jealous?”

“No,” Natalya replied, ahead of her on the stairs. “Why would she be?”

Angélique huffed a laugh but didn’t comment further.

Somewhere, Natalya hoped she was right about Olympe, because it would mean that she, Natalya, had made herself invaluable. That didn’t happen often. It would be good. The fact that she potentially _liked_ Natalya and didn’t just appreciate her skills… Was also good. Stefan was proof that few things were more useful than people who liked you.

The rest of the day went by normally. Which is to say, it was busy, Olympe tripped over her feet thrice and got her skirt caught on four separate door handles. Natalya saved her each time, and stopped Angélique’s chair from toppling over while she was at it. This did leave her feeling rather tired, but also faintly accomplished, so she didn’t mind too much.

She did very much mind when she walked outside with Olympe at the end of the day, talking in amicable way she would not have held possible even two weeks ago, and she had to save her from something far more dangerous.

They both had to watch their feet on the cobblestones, because heels were evidently not made for old city streets, and Olympe was talking about something Francis had done years ago that had resulted in Sadık breaking up with him for five days, so neither of them was paying much attention to the road. One usually didn’t need to; the street out front of the publishing house was not exactly a busy one.

This was why, when a sleek blue car came racing around the corner at top speed, Olympe startled so much that she twisted her ankle and pitched forward with a yelp, and that goddamn car wasn’t _stopping_. No fucking brake lights at all. Natalya was too distracted by that to stop her boss from hitting the ground, barely noticed the grunt of pain when she did.

The car. She had to stop the car.

It wasn’t as if time slowed down this time; she could see everything happening in a split second. It was going to hit Olympe, who was struggling to stand, if she didn’t do something _right now_.

Wordlessly, she yelled at the car, its reckless driver, while she pushed a hand towards it, willing the power brimming in her body out. She saw dark sunglasses through the windshield for a second, but then the vehicle was spinning away from the road, away from Natalya and Olympe, steered only by sheer willpower and barreling right into the scaffolding around the empty building opposite Arc. It took much of it down as it slowed to a stop, but Natalya knew instinctively no one was hurt.

Her magic didn’t like people being hurt.

“Oh my god,” Olympe gasped, and Natalya sank to her knees next to her, because her vision was blackening at the edges and her knees felt weak. “Are you all right?”

“Me?” She nearly laughed, looking at her boss, who had taken one shoe off and was rotating her ankle experimentally. “I’m fine. What about _you_?”

“I just fell, it isn’t anything I can’t handle,” she said. Then, “Oh, look, the driver is fine. I hope we can settle this in a polite manner.”

Natalya, who just wanted to rip Mr – it was a Mr – Sunglasses’ head off for being so _fucking_ reckless, hummed noncommittally and hung back while Olympe talked to him, favoring her right foot. It all seemed to work out in the end, even if Olympe was surprised that she was still there and then Natalya realized that that _was_ weird, and went home quickly. She needed some food, and preferably a nice stiff drink.

What she got instead was Dragos Rotaru’s bike parked in front of the liquor store, where Barranco would undoubtedly kick it to the street eventually, and the insufferable photographer himself drinking wine with Stefan on their balcony.

Natalya drew the curtains, flopped on the couch, and watched a documentary about space until she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke with a crick in her neck and in a bad mood that didn’t go away after a shower or breakfast, and even blasting her favorite music on the way to work didn’t help, the piercing guitars just aggravating her further. It just wasn’t right that Olympe was so clumsy. That her half-brother was in hospital or her father still recovering from his own stint. But she didn’t know what was causing it, if anything. Plain bad luck couldn’t be underrated, in her opinion, but still…

She took the stairs, not trusting herself with the elevator when she was like this. Or, more accurately, with anyone else in the elevator. Tolys Laurinaitis nodded at her, his smile hesitant and slipping from his face when she didn’t return the gesture. Later, she’d feel bad about that. Not now.

On the staircase, the only sound was produced by her heels clacking on the floor, until a door flung open somewhere above her, and Natalya could hear familiar voices talking in suspiciously hushed tones, cutting off abruptly after what seemed like half a sentence. She rolled her eyes, amused despite herself, and halted halfway to the second floor.

“Dave – David,” Angélique muttered, right above her head. “I think I heard something.”

The man chuckled. “No one takes the stairs, bunch of lazy bastards.”

Angélique huffed at that, and then there were the unmistakable sounds of kissing, and her familiar laugh echoing through the stairwell. Definitely on-again. Natalya wondered how long it would last this time. Both Angélique and David were good people, she thought, but they were both a little fleeting and not ready to settle down, least of all with each other.

Once, she had told Feliks this, and he’d looked impressed at the analysis but also disagreed vehemently, and Luca had looked way too much like his brother whenever Stefan was near in the background at the mention of either David or Angélique, Natalya honestly hadn’t been able to tell, maybe even both, so she’d left the topic alone since then.

As she mused on this, the two of them shuffled around on the second floor, and it was actually somehow improving her mood.

Until, inevitably, it seemed, there was a yell from Angélique, a crash, swearing from David, and panic surged high in Natalya’s throat. Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and she hurried up to the landing.

Angélique must have fallen down the stairs somehow, because there she was cradled in David’s arms, her eyelids fluttering and her leg twisted weirdly underneath her ruined blue jumpsuit. She looked in Natalya’s direction. Natalya looked away, grabbed her phone, and called an ambulance.

She should have done something.

* * *

But maybe she could do something, she decided at the end of that hectic day. Olympe had seemed to be thrown off-balance by the fact that Angélique was in the hospital for the day, even though the woman had assured her she would be perfectly able to work after the weekend when her concussion had worn off, and the boss being off-balance threw the whole team off-balance. Even the ever-calm Huang had seemed restless today.

Natalya sat on the empty balcony in the evening sun after her dinner and waited until Stefan came out to smoke a cigarette in a too-tight novelty T-shirt and with his hair even messier than usual. She looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged.

“I want Dragos here,” she just told him.

“Yeah, I mean, that makes two of us, but—”

“Stefan, go drag him out of your fucking bed, there’s something I need to talk to him about.”

He raised his hands placatingly and shuffled back into his apartment, and a few minutes later, an equally rumpled Dragos Rotaru spilled out, wearing Stefan’s bathrobe.

“Hey, Nat,” he said, and she’d long since given up telling him not to call her Nat, but she did glare at him just for the idea of it while he sat down, stretching those thin legs out until they touched the legs of her rickety chair. It was almost dark now, but still a pleasant temperature.

“Something’s going on.”

He raised his eyebrows and tugged at his earlobe absently.

“Could you be more specific?”

“With the Bonnefoys. Like they’re _cursed_ or something. Is that possible?”

Now, he straightened, pushed his wispy hair out of his face, and chewed his lower lip in thought. He had a very obvious case of stubble burn across his jaw, but Natalya wasn’t in any mood to comment on it.

“I’m not sure,” he said eventually. “It sounds like it should be, but that means that there’s at least one other person out there who can, you know, do what we do, because I sure as hell didn’t curse anyone and I don’t think Luc did, and I assume we can rule you out… What kind of curse? Why do you think it’s a curse?”

She sighed, tugged at her sleeves. “Bonnefoy senior and Francis Bonnefoy are both in hospital, or have been recently, I keep having to fucking save Olympe from the world at large – she almost got run over by a car whose driver claims the brakes were faulty yesterday – and this morning, Angélique fell down the stairs and got a concussion and a broken leg. It’s just not right.”

“Angélique being?”

“Francis’s assistant. She told me once she’s distantly related to him.”

He nodded, looking contemplative and kind of excited, like the weirdo he was. If Natalya looked at it from a different perspective, she supposed it was sort of, not exciting, but intriguing. Nevertheless, she’d somehow grown to care about some specific members of the extended Bonnefoy clan and was now too close to the issue to see the humor of it. Not when Olympe could have died yesterday if she hadn’t been there.

“Dragos,” she breathed, suddenly terrified, “what if I’m the only thing keeping Olympe alive?”

“The way Stefan told me, you would have been happy to be rid of her a couple months ago,” Dragos replied faintly, looking at something on his phone.

“That was months ago! What are you doing?” she snapped.

“Well, if it is a curse, we have to know first and foremost who’s responsible for it. I know jack shit about the Bonnefoys, or Arc or any of it, so I might as well read up, unless you have an idea?”

“About—”

He shrugged, now looking at her with one dark eye. “Who it could be if it is a curse.”

She thought about this, dismissing the first thought that crossed her mind and then circling back to it when nothing else yielded any results. It was, she thought, the only thing that sounded logical to her.

“Amata.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "it's been 84 years..."


End file.
